So, here's this:

Every third breath is made by a boa constrictor.
He lives in my ribcage, you see,
and sometimes like to see what his musculature can do compared to mine.

If every night star story started with a clear light,
what would happen to cloud cover?
What would happen to all the silver linings?

I felt what you meant when you said sometimes you yearn more for a body to hold,
someone whose arms say more than their breath,
than their breadth.
Boa knew it all along,
but I've just been letting him grow and gripe.

I knew it all along, that it would feel better then worse,
as he grew he'd need more space,
he'd demand more space and take up more space.
Except I always thought space was just a place for stars,
and if you needed to moonbounce,
you always had another planet available.
Except you didn't, and I didn't know if I wanted one, or a different you.
I want bits and pieces, I want to build my own puzzle with preference,
500 pieces that are hand picked by yours truly.

A puzzle is still a puzzle if all the pieces mostly fit, right?
Even in designated cutouts, with enough use they fade,
and become questionable in their habits.
"Are you sure this goes here? These reds are not the same"
"Sure hon, it's been like that for years, it's supposed to be like that".
When do you seek your better fitting other half, though?

Boa can twine, at least. Better to be fluid and versatile, than stock and habit.

I don't want to be in your bed sheets.
And I don't want you tangled up in mine,
I made my bed this morning.
I don't want you in my bed sheets,
Tangled up in them
Entwined
As if they were the vines of lust,
Binding you to the mirage of Us
The vines of love are coated with dust,
It's dangerous.
It's slippery.
Wet like the ocean as soon as you dip in me.
They say the ocean is deep and within it lie secrets...
Kiss me farewell and dive to the bottom of the seven seas just to keep it.
I don't want to go swimming in my bed sheets.
Then they'd be drenched from the high tides of expired desire
I don't want to wring out the deception that you perspire
I don't want to make my bed again.
My laundry is clean.

To revisit a bench,
In the park of nonsense -
Where as children
We felt colour as drugs:

A pool of rain, reflects
Fleeting wings.
As the moss-oak bench,

Ages.

Sometimes,
I miss you with such ferocious intensity
that I start to wonder if it's you I actually miss.
Perhaps, it's simply the idea of you,
or how my puzzle shelf seems to now be missing a piece.

You asked me how it was possible
for two people to be able to share such depth
and such shallow waters together.
I wasn't sure how to tell you how deep those waters went.

It's like your black, your notes, the vision of sheet music moving
once the player gives life to the sound. It's how sometimes,
you feel certain. Others, you feel a million rays of doubt and trouble
and construct that weren't made by your hands.

It's when you can't fall asleep because you're hacking up a lung,
and when John Green makes you want to cry and throw the book and pick it up and whisper
IloveyouIloveyouIloveyou.
I still haven't figured out if I'm talking to him, the book, or you. Or me.

It's when I wish you were in my bed, just so I could lean over and kiss your forehead,
with the light still on and your snores filling the room.
I'd probably take that back once your chainsaw uvula nasal passages filled the room,
but as for right now, my starfish doesn't quite tuck so neatly.

Four people walk into a bar--
and let it all hang out.
      Everyone is spitting out some demons.
We knew we were at the right place
when the band started playing "Last Dance with Mary Jane."
My best friend made my neighbor cry,
but she needed it,
she's bottled up so much.
He wasn't mean,
just hit her with truth.

I let it known I have poor taste
in the woman I date.

                 No ***** were given,
we're all emotionally volatile
when sober.
We shared each other
along with drinks.

I jumped off my balcony.

The next morning
I cried--
what a release  last night was
for us.
Then I threw up.