Why can't we have meaningless talk
the way people have meaningless ***-
you would crash over me into a
river of un-scathing emptiness
and leave marks on my skin-
stories that this was where
you started to tear at
the seams
effortlessly
like the silkness
of your sorrows on my floor.

You would become a sultry verse
in this anthology of every day
lodged between the rush and
vacancy of broken hearts
and anguished limbs.

You would radiate the heat
of your angry, angry heart onto
the cold deadness of mine,
and we could burn and melt
all at the same time.

Meaninglessly you would leave
me out of breath,
gather your clothes
and go home.

I hate the way,
                         I believed your promises.
I hate the way,
                        you led me to touch
the truth in the words you wrote.

I hate the way I opened
                         my curtains and doors,
letting in the sunshine of you;
breathing in the scent of you.

I hate the reasons
                         of things I don't know,
of things you didn't do,
that left me waiting.

I hate standing here.
Wave-after-wave hitting the shore.
Without sight of you,
                         anywhere on the horizon.

I hate that there's no way
to pull closed my doors.
And forget you.
                       Like you forgot me.

She seems nice
Probably nicer than me
You say she's smart
I get only decent grades
Nice, smart, gorgeous too
Good thing I lost ten pounds for you

Once you said you loved me
Now you love a fencer

Hope you are happy
One thing I could never make you
Please just don't forget me
Even though she's the one who pierced your heart

Will you love me when I'm 80
When I walk and talk real slow?
Will you love my wrinkles
If I let them show?
Will you hold me every night
And kiss me in the morning light?
And when I see my last sunrise
Will you hold me when I die?

were my anchor to reality
but you broke the chain
and left me drifting
into the storm

I’ve found religion in your smile.
Trusted the way it curves, practicing
the lines in my mind with delicacy,
ripening your image until it’s sore.
Your throat baptizes me,
replaces the devil of my intentions
with sweet, rosy breath,
curling my inhibitions until they dive
back into me and I express my very desires
openly on a blanket--
and it’s no sin
because I love the way your spine stands
like a perfect cross, carrying me
to the vision you have of a better me
than what I used to be.
I’ve prayed for your thighs in naughty ways,
but you’ve taken my hands,
folded them into shapes I can’t comprehend
and kissed my fingertips until I was crying
out of confusion and catharsis,
finally understanding what it feels like to count
people, you, as a blessing.
I see God when you make instruments
out of blades of grass, or how that strap
slides off your shoulders when the wind
graces the moment with a whisper.
He gave me an angel disguised as a woman
with too many pillows on her bed and coffee breath,
but you pull me from point to point like taffy,
slowly, lagging, molding me into the gift
you never wished for. I, bestowed at His feet,
unwilling found a soul and a heartbeat
louder than any of my unforgiving words.