in your beauty lies every whisper that has slipped through painted lips, painted lips that have left stains on wine glasses, and cigarette filters, and vulnerable hearts. there's something more than just a flash or a sparkle dancing behind your eyes, something more than fireworks before the dawn or a star gone supernova. within your eyes there's always been something that set you apart, that spoke volumes between every subtle blink. the very blood that flows within you, dances and smiles, demands to be kissed in unsuspecting places. your bones, ivory and laced in pearls, wish to be wrapped around the bedpost and tangled in the sheets and hung out to dry on a clothesline in the summer breeze. your voice is melodic, hypnotizing, it wishes to grab and entice and desires only to watch its bidding be done; but despite, knows all the right things to say when the lights are dimmed and the door is locked and there's a candle or two burning to the core. and your core, your very essence is screaming. it's screaming all the time, haunting and chilling with elements of begging, let me be heard, let me be seen, let me be felt in the throat of your lover.
your beauty is something ineffable and all i'm left with is some metaphor that has manifested itself at the foot of my bed

everyone's dying and all I can do is scream at the top of my lungs and wait for the bathroom light to burn out so we can use up all the extras we bought for the apocalypse that's never going to happen

and we smoke too many cigarettes in the house and everything is kind of yellow and you can't see yourself in the mirror proper but the stains on the couch and the carpet and the bed sheets seem to do the trick just as well

and we stay up too late and see more of the moon than the sun but we talk about our dreams like it hasn't been six months since we last saw a sunrise

and the floor is made of dust and ash but we never fall through when the blinds are closed and you carve the notches in the bedpost too deep and the bed collapses beneath us again

and the traffic never stops and the snow never melts cause it's always cold here but we burn the newspapers and our old science textbooks to keep warm and I couldn't even tell you what month it is now

but this morning I opened my eyes and read what the walls have been writing for months and we climbed up on ladders and smashed the ceiling.

we made a skylight and watched the sun rise

I was half out the window, my feet had only just touched the roof of your garage when I heard your voice from within. I still can’t be sure if you had actually spoken or if it was just my guilty conscience playing tricks on me; but I heard your voice.

Good Morning but it’s laced with Goodbye.

The way it shook, like an empty tree branch in the middle of February. Your pleading tone called upon Mother Nature herself, the wind picked up and bit at my skin and rustled my hair. The love letters on the walls were ripped from their places and they fell. Like the fall of all great things, they leave their mark. They left shadows of memories; distorted colours of what once were affections. Images so fleeting you can’t even place trust in what your eyes claim as real. The letters, as they floated down covered the floor, and the dresser, the chair, and the bookshelf. Everywhere; except the bed sheets, where a boy with faltered breathing lay; where the hitch in your breath posed a vague question.

Why?

I know you thought to ask where I was going, and I know you thought better of it. Today was the kind of day the sun never really rises. Not the kind where it’s merely hidden behind a thick layer of clouds. No, today was the kind of day where the sun peeked just far enough over the horizon to decide that today was not worth the effort. The kind of day, where even the consistency of that celestial beauty wavers and you just know you can’t stay.

I always loved the way your heartbeat sounded as the sun broke dawn.

It felt like the world had stopped turning. My blood froze, my breathing stopped entirely, and I was amazed that I heard you ask me to close the window over the sound of my own racing heart in my ears. It was odd the way neither of us made a move; I don’t think either of us moved a single muscle until I made the one decision that brought everything flooding in. I met your eyes. Your crystalline eyes with an ocean storm brewing behind them. More breakable than glass; I remember whispering as they cracked viciously the longer you held my gaze. I know I tried to open my mouth, I know I tried to offer an explanation, but the world was crashing down around us and it was cold.

So very cold.

You asked me what the walls would think now. What would all the illusions I had painted to perfection think of the bullets that shattered their frames. What would the resounding whispers do when they get drowned out by screams; screams always just on the tip of your tongue. What would they do when all the light bulbs go out and the candles have burnt themselves down, in some desperate attempt to keep dancing for the ocean in your eyes.

What of the walls?

You asked me so many questions, none of which I had any answers for. All I could tell you was that the birds had flown away and the wind had beckoned me to follow, and that I promised I would be gone before the day the sun chose to rise again.

Draw like you want to beat the **** out of God for limiting the colour spectrum to something finite.

Write like the ******* paper is on fire and your pen is kerosene and it’s burning and you’re screaming but it feels so ******* good.

Realize you’re a ******* *****.

Realize everyone’s a ***** and the sun is only going to explode and the world is only going to burn and we’re all going to die in fire, but it’s only going to hurt for an instant.

But you love the pain, that’s why you beg him to paint you black and blue and make you bleed so you can see how disgusting you really are.

Remember that god has abandoned us all and Jesus died for your masochistic tendencies.

So, crucify me on your parent’s bed and **** me like repenting can save us.

**** me like you want to save us.

But what’s salvation to bruised knees and praying to the tune of incoherent screams and begging and pleading and Yes Sir and Thank You Sir and an ****** so hard your body joins your head in the clouds.

Learn languages and **** his **** in all of them.

Turn *** into art the way he turns you into his masterpiece.

Live like your biggest debate is whether or not to drink a pint of beer, or a pint of blood – and choose the blood every time.

**** yourself every second of every ******* day and remember that you’re alive and you’re not so well and never look your grave in the eyes until he tells you to.

Scrapbook every bullet hole you've kissed, keep mason jars for the dirt he rubbed your face in, plant a cigarette **** for good luck, always ask permission, remember you’re disgusting, remember you’re dying, remember you’re alive, remember love, remember passion, remember anger, remember this.

something temporary has such power to impress the mind because of the knowledge of its mortality. we hold it dearer for we know that it's beauty and the succession of feelings it forces upon us will be gone all too soon. the lights will dim, the curtains will close, and the memories once fresh will find their way into some unmarked box in your mind that you may one day stumble upon with a vague - and slightly wistful - sense of recollection. nothing can last forever and time limits are all too real, but without a finite end, without a sense of impermanence, we would have no appreciation for ephemeral beauty. we would know not respite in it's most tender form. we would not know the bittersweet tangibility of lingering kisses and final words and fleeting images of past joys. we must always remember to be thankful for the experiences that pass their afterlife in the recesses of our memories. we must always remember that their purpose has been fulfilled - to shape our future and lead us to the next ones who come along.

the night and the frost and the words that they speak
your fingers are frozen, your eyelids are closed
the crests and the troughs of your breath in the air
like the language of winter winds;
harsh tones that never go unheard
beneath your feet or inside your ribcage
or even as the frigid night that entwines itself with you
demanding to be felt

kveld og frost og ordene som de snakker
ditt fingrene er frosne, ditt øyelokkene er lukket
topper og daler av ditt pusten i luften
som språket av vinteren vind;
harde toner som aldri går uhørt
under føttene eller inni ditt brystkasse
eller som den iskalde natten som entwines seg med deg
krevende som må oppleves

two candles but they're only your eyes.
twisting and contorting, and they can articulate your desires better than your mouth ever could.
candle wax only exists on the crests of your cheekbones when your eyes have been blazing for days.
they drip down in patterns that God himself could only hope to decipher.
your eyes as they burn are subjective only to the sound of her voice, or the curvature of her body as it writhes beneath you.
your visceral reactions have nothing on the hidden semantics that litter her skin.
ubiquitous presences gazing down at you, gazing down at her, windows fogging and cracking.
now, This is Poetry
          This is Catharsis
this is raining hell down on her until she's every saturated colour she could never define.
like forcing her to write every pro and con of sleeping on the floor while you held a gun to her head.
and she knows better than to scream with the lights turned on.
give me guided meditation as a self defence mechanism.
give me self reflection as a form of shock therapy.
give me militant offensive tactics.
give me blood, give me a martyr.
whisper her name into the sheets and send them into space.
and let them drift along forever.
and send her into space after them.
and admire the way it can rob her of her last breath the way you never could.
maybe now you can look yourself in the eye in the mirror.
maybe you can stop burning all those ******* candles.
maybe now you can stop trying to burn yourself down.