We’re harmonizing
in a bed without sheets,
I don’t know what I’m singing
but it doesn't seem to matter,
because we’re making up words
so that the music will write itself
and now I’m struggling with keeping a beat.

They’re always cold
and they don’t want warming
because the wind will be
even more bitter after.
They can hold their own;
I can hold my own hands.

I seem more appealing
when there are pillows in the room
and that's okay
as long as I can still touch you,
taste you,
hear you,
smell you,
see you,
you can be as irate as you will.
I need these 5 senses
to ensure that you are here,
that you are real,
that I'm not in love with
someone's shadow.
This is when the week days seem to last forever
even though it’s only been that long,
you’re already literaturely beautiful
making me seem poetically challenged
while I’m watching you draw
wishing I had the skill to just trace
the outline of your face
and your fast hands

Give me your head,
give me myself back.

It’s rare that you're here
and when you are, you still aren't
sometimes you speak to me with words
usually you leave without saying goodbye
I have drawn so many conclusions
but I haven’t proved any hypothesis;
you don’t need a method for everything

I’m starving,
but I won’t eat
because I don’t want to swallow any more of your words
that are so hard to digest,
that confine me to my bed,
that don’t escape my system for months
so I won’t come clean
and I don’t want washing.

It’s morning and there’s an incoming,
your receptors sense a spark of sadness
so they take it
and mash it
and all of a sudden It’s here:
nothingness.
Staring into the perpetual vastness
of a mind that you have
and there are no signs of life
no remnants of emotion that could indicate
something once lived and breathed and laughed
in this abyss
in this blackness
so until Doc bumps up the milligram
for the fifth time around
I can distract myself
with people, places and plants
and listen to his South African accent
while imagining a planet rational to my mind
devoid of even the most microscopic of organisms.
Not a patio brick
or a single tumble bug of my childhood remains,
only these deep lacerations
veiling the beauty of the land which it scars.

Now it’s noon
and the scuffs on my shoes remind me of you
My mind is racing
while Zoloft takes my sadness
and transmutes it into emptiness;
I’m currently still trying to ascertain
which of them is worse.

I want to feel a day away
I want you to say big words
and talk of other worlds
and think of all the little minds at night
who want nothing more than to
turn off the lights
and lay down next to
what pandora never saw

But I can wake up in the morning
and think maybe today holds
everything I've been wanting
and I can look to the sky
and there her hope is, sitting there
shining onto my face

Distress shows on my face
like atheism in a priest
yet is welcome in my head
like a baby in its crib.
I'm always where I don't belong
always finding myself singing songs with cicadas
I'm always losing my head
And finding myself stuck, still a slave to time
it's time I find so pressing
not some boy's dejection or rejection of my kind words
(in that sense, I can make 101 comparisons
of myself to a rubber ball, always bouncing back)
no, it's time I'm so scared of
it's time that's constantly breaking my heart
when I fall in love at least 32 times in a day

I fall in love with contentment,
with the sunrays that filter through the leaves
of early autumn trees
with the slight lisp
situated between my favorite singer's lips
I fall in love with the milliseconds when
life seems sublime
when I snake my way out of glass,
when the wind dances on the
ski-***** of my nose,
the moon lifting me up
putting pretty words in my head.
Time will always be sure to come and
rob me of these lovers of mine
and so
naturally,
in their passing I am left hollow,
confused,
longing and heartsick for something that no longer exists
but is still very real