Clear off the bed
and come lie next to me
or lie with me
or crawl under these sheets
and die with me
or without
I'm used to it
but I could get used to this

Clear out your mind
and sink down low with me
or get high with me
or hold my hand
and lose some time with me
or without
I'm used to it
but I could get used to this

Clean up your act
and fall apart with me
or fall, apart from me
or fall, a part of me
and take some time to cry with me
or without
I'm used to it
but I could get used to this

Clean out your car
and run away with me
or run to me
or put it in reverse
and go back to the start with me
or without
I'm used to it
but I could get used to this

Cleanse your spirit
and embrace this pain with me
or brace for pain with me
or take a moment to put me back together
and just be with me, with me
or without
I'm used to it
but I could still get used to this

I gave the hero of this story trust
issues. So that when his castle fell he
wouldn't worry about the damsel still
calling from the ramparts, where I hold court
in the dust. For this is my battlefield
where the headstones will read like love letters
and the weeds will serve as the royal seal.

I gave the hero of this story hope
a magic bean and two old china cups.
But the china, brittle, the bean rotten
as these once fertile lands lie waterlogged.
You can't grow your crops here, boy, go home.
I'll drown this hero before he can stand
the sight of the muddy bank. A hero's death.

I gave the hero of this story bread
water, and melody. To help him sleep
soundly and noiselessly, still. Arms, pillows
sway to the metronome of the city
beating such a heroic retreat. Stand
with fingers touching, childlike and brave.
Until the next wave comes and holds. It breaks.

I just finished texting you on December 31st
Sunday night, or maybe you consider that a Monday morning
and a country song just came on the radio
I couldn't help but to think about how much I hate country music
I hate the stereotypical voice the singer always sings,
the predictable pattern of strung guitar strings
So, at 2:24 am, on a December 31st, Sunday night/Monday morning

I started to wonder if you liked country music
Or believed too that it's tacky
I wonder if "tacky" even exist in your vocabulary
Where did you get your vocabulary?
Did your mom raise you to believe words would be your greatest ally
Was she raised with more than one language
I wonder what your ancestor's native language sounds like
And if it was ripped out of their tongues
Like culture in our history books
what stories were told from those tongues that history books could never tell
I wonder, what kind of stories you've carved in lover's mouths
with just your, tongue.

I wondered if you've ever lost someone
I wonder if you've ever lost yourself
If you did, where did you find yourself?
Did you find yourself in your palms over bent knees
That kissed the ground that at one time
kissed your feet.

I wonder when we'll meet
I wonder if I'll meet your best friend. If shell ever get scared
You'll replace her with me
And if I'll have to tell her, she's irreplaceable.
I wonder what's your favorite places you've been to
The places that made you smile to your human anatomy's most potential
And I wonder how much you know about your own human anatomy
I wonder if you know that an average heart beats 100,000 times a day
Pumping almost 2,000 gallons of blood through its chambers
Over a 70 year lifespan, that adds up to about 2.5 billion heartbeat
And sitting here, just wondering about you- you made me skip a few.

It's now 3:07 a.m.
And I'm wonderin' if you've ever wondered what it would be like to be loved by a poet
To have your body be put words and your words be put against my body
To have lips match figurative language to the figure of your body
And write love poems on your cheek
And I wonder if you even consider me a poet.

What are the events in your life you consider poetic?
If your life was a poem, what kind of poem would your
8th grade English teacher categorize it as?
If you were a curious child and if now
You're ever curious about me
If my mind ever wanders while I wonder about you
And if I could ever weaver it back

At 3:21 a.m., December 31st, Sunday night, Monday morning
I'm wondering if you're wondering about me.
Or if you ever wonder if I've ever lost myself, but more recently, lost my mind writing poetry

I wonder if you wonder if I consider myself a poet.
I wonder, if at 3:27 am, if you're awake too,
Wondering if I like country music.

I told you after I ate all those wild mushrooms
"I will kick that bowl over...I'm sorry, but I will do it and I don't know why I can't force myself not to."
And the bowl tumbles over, and out spill all your secrets and emotions.
I didn't expect the carpet to soak you up so easy.
You're sinking in like water in skin, an IV drip with ivy grip
I got no reason to fight this, but it's gonna happen.

So I stand here listening to you unravel yourself
And it starts slowly, like your hair falls out
And then your nails begin to peel back
And your skin disintegrates into human ash.
Your muscular system falls off like wraps from a mummy
And then you tumble apart.

So here I am, I told you I would do it,
And I did it. And I didn't want to.
Because now I am picking up all the pieces.
Do you have any idea how long it takes to put a person back together again?

This is a lifetime project.
I have to put it on the backburner.
Otherwise I'll starve to death, because hilariously enough
We live in a place where we must pass the buck,
Like some other things...

Enough. I don't want to last here
I don't want to keep myself in a state of hypocrisy
I haven't had enough time for change
As drastically
As I hoped to have done
I haven't
Had
Fun
In Years
So much sorrow for someone so young.

I feel dumb
Sort of like a dream
Asleep but I can't see
Only hear the random speech
Muffled like I'm in the deep end
Listening up.

I haven't had enough
Yet
But I don't want any more.

It's 4:36 am
and I've
spent
too many of the
past nights
at this
hour
remembering your hands.

I don't relate to
any of this anymore.
Buildings rip the sky
blocking out the light
of stellar smiles.
If I look out I can only
see for a few feet
not miles and miles.
I've worn out the soles
of my shoes
walking the streets
that sandpaper my soul.
I don't connect to
any of it anymore.
The lights on all night
pretending to be extra-
terrestrial
or the stacks of ads
that blockade my mail
But there aren't
any letters for me anyway
cause I don't relate to this
anymore.

you know
just as soon
as i'm settled
here you come
crashing in
like a trucker
asleep at the
wheel while
driving back
and forth from
coast to coast

my god do i
welcome these
collisions full
of rainy phone
conversations
and hopeful
hints of something
beautiful to
come my way

i'll come see
you in a dog
pile and we'll
find ways to
figure out
how to make
the unworkable
work because
we can and i
want you more
than i want
anyone and,
jesus, that's
what counts,
isn't it?

so what if
we're chock
full of fights,
fears, and
fantasies?
we're both
just children
looking for
a hand to hold
and yours
feels better
in mine
than most