Do people tell me I'm beautiful?
All the time, yes.
But not when they know me,
not every day they see me,
and certainly not
the way you tell me, dear.

This pub.  This chair.
BUT-- by this time, that year,
you were driving me to the airport--
Like you were sending me off to war--
Like you doubted whether I would actually come home this time.

That was the first time you lost me.

The second was after a few too many Peppermint Schnapps,
and I walked you downtown,
through each stage of rejection,
smiling.

The third and fourth are no short story,
mostly for all the time between them,
but also because there are parts of me you'll never get back.

Dark lights, locked doors.
Today the pub is closed.
Sorry.  That's the way it has to be.

If you were mine, I must not touch you.
In the desert of space and time
I would watch you turn.
And you would know
that every part of you was being memorized,
so that I could still fuel my world when you're not home.

Like solar energy.
Like sunflowers.

If you were mine, you must never be held.
I will always be longing for your warmth,
basking in your glow,
thriving from the excess you exhale.

You, my sun, are everything--
and when you go, we will surely follow.

Once again, the winds change.
It's raining on the sunny parts of town-- Oh Holy Hell.

The birds flutter by in the cross winds,
gracefully out of control--
The dogs cry and gather themselves
into my embrace.

We both recognize the passing glance of danger,
and the subtle way life reminds us of our
perpetual state of insecurity.

Matt is in the basement, building a desk.

Sunrise.
My breath smells like your mouth used to taste
on early mornings after late nights together,

and we would kiss and not mind
because we were one and we were in love and
we were whatever things were.

My eyes are in Florida,
watching the sun rise over your face and
the bank where the ocean lapped up
over our bare 5:00 feet.

We looked for alligators.
We snuck into the men's shower together
for a silent dance party and
our usual admiration of the human body.
We tried to make it special.

So here I sit,
leathering hands,
smokey face,
lost thoughts for all the right reasons,
and too many expectations.

I might erode to nothing before you ever get to me.

Let's cut out our tongues.
We'll hang them from the empty wires in my backyard and
dance around them like soulless heathens or
wear them around our necks in remembrance of
the days we spent too much time talking
and not enough time touching
or loving.

We'll throw them away or
feed them to the dogs that live in the alley by that park next to the highway because
We don't need them!
We don't want them!

To speak,
We'll stare-- and blink in rhythms:
One blink, "I love you."
Two blinks, "I miss you."
Three blinks, "Stop effing blinking, you're freaking me out."
Right wink, "Hi darling, how was your day?"
Left wink, "It was marvelous, and now it's even better because you're here."
--That's all we ever say anyway.

To kiss,
We'll turn out the lights and
hold our heads together like puzzle pieces and
breathe each other's faces off,
taking turns drowning in
unwanted exhales.
--That's all we ever do anyway.

She laid herself across the skyline
on a bed of old memories,
settled in the morning fog.

I'd like to live here.
I'd like to spend every afternoon,
wasted and wasting the daylight on
those stupid freckles and hotel bedsheets.

I'd like to live between your shoulder blades,
always graced with a twisted arm and
a heavy palm pressed against my back,
getting softer by the minute.

I'd like to live beneath your ribcage,
shouting hollow Om's at the vaulted ceilings
before I slip into your old t-shirt,
slip into your basement, and slip out of sight.

Dear friend, don't get up.

She keeps a heavy hand and an open promise:
sleep always on the horizon,
not ever at home.

While the sun got higher,
we stayed low--
swaying and sweating in the trenches
like outlaws on the run.

We shoot to ****.

Today I am a loaded pistol
and your palm is pressed against my action,
waiting for your moment--
waiting for a green light--
waiting for me to crawl back into bed and pull the trigger--
and your hands are set ablaze,
waiting to light the fuse.

Here I am,
in hiding,
belly to the earth,
eyes shut.

It's not late enough for fireworks.
It's not early enough to be wasting your time.

If it were up to me,
you'd have a girl,
a lover,
a staunch and
silky silhouette
between your ***** sheets--

she's the perfect venue for your
****** thoughts and
ill intentions.

She'd be proud,
and savage,
and loud when she's drunk,

a little bit broken,
but not too much--
just enough to understand you.

She'd be your muse
and your music,

sleeping on the
hardwood floor,
in the little puddle of light
that seeps
through the curtains of
your subconscious--

but she's not afraid of the dark that you live in.

Hey handsome, sleeping still,
let me tell you who I am:

I write things to people.
I talk about my feelings, because my world is made of feelings,
and this world holds my hand and dictates my direction.

I slip away in the morning without saying "goodbye."
Today, while no one was watching, I did nothing.
I read ***** thoughts of strangers on the walls of bathroom stalls.
I like meeting your eyes across the room.

You don't know who I am--
what drives me, what scares me,
what I want, what I need,

But That's Okay.

I mean, how well can people really understand you
without being in your head and your thoughts?
Nobody really knows anybody.

I'd like to remind you
that I think of you every day--
and the thought sticks to me,
then peels away,
like burnt skin--
as if
I love nothing more than the idea of
being surrounded by you,
no matter how much it hurts.

I'd like to remind you of the lessons you've learned--
rise from the ash, my love,
you are not who you thought you were--
so act like it.

I'll remind you that
the "pain" you feel
is just the sensation of blood
rushing back to the limbs and organs
you left empty for a while.

Please don't stay empty for long--
you're a sad little monster.
And the world,
we did nothing to deserve your cold shoulder.

In the hours before the day's immediacy is done,
the biggest desires always emerge:
No more *******.
Too many people to love.

The car doors are about to fly off,
and the back window is gone,
but we don't care--

our own specialized storm team,
parked precariously on top of this flower dusted hill,
sunburnt and wind bitten,

we keep clicking,

on and on until the sun is dead or
the car explodes or
we run out of Earth to consume.

Follow me to the edge and
we'll fly against the sting of our faces and souls.

I guess the good news is that
you couldn't possibly hate me more than you do now.

I am the world and the world is me.

Morning breaks above the surface,
followed by my breath.

You'll have to forgive me,
I'm still waking up.
Still getting used to the light
and the idea of loving you.

Sleep naked for a living--
Stay open.

I've told you again, but still you forget
how beautiful you sound, or seem,
when you wash away your fears and become
nothing.

Nothing at all.

Fire up-- Take flight-- Take notice:
We are here for more than one reason,
more than one lifetime,
more than one chance to get this right.

So,

Stop-- Step-- Breathe:
I have this little book in my hand with a few things to remember.
Honest, personal, but open--
read it if you want to--
my mind, my life has nothing to hide,
nothing to be ashamed of.

This is just me,
wearing a handful of your old clothing,
especially proud of what I have today.

Just trying to find out what it takes to be--
to be beautiful, to be good,
to be raw.

This is just me,
wearing a handful of your old clothing,
especially proud of myself today;

not wanting to give up what I have in you,
but knowing--

if you don't tell me you love me,
someone else will.

When you get back,
write a list of the ways you have wronged me,
and I'll write my own,
and we'll start from there.

You think it's your fault,
and I can't decide, but
it's not that kind of world--
we all do some pretty ****** up things to each other.

When the summer heat swells in, we'll undress each other and lie naked on the hardwood floor of our kitchen.  That's a promise.  Fans will hum around us, a chorus of shhhh's and cicadas, and I'll draw lines with the pools of sweat on your skin-- from your temples to your toes and back up again.  We'll bake in the cool color of the air, needing no release, but panting on the floor like tired dogs.

I'll sing you a song.  You'll adore me.  We'll turn over.

Tell me a secret.
I'm eager to know you.

I collect souls, relationships, memories.
I collect intimacy.
I collect secrets and love letters and lovers.

I'm collecting you,
and then I'll move on.

But I'll send you a postcard.

You are the definition of love.
Summer is your element,
and your time will come.

You and I both, man--
We're in a sinking ship,
full of bleeding holes,
getting shot down
by the one woman who asked us to be here--

And she's standing over us,
red-faced and willing,
begging us to float.

Blue is a word.
Blue is a dark morning,
Hung beneath a delightful word,
Spoken softly before you wake.

He's asleep and the room is burning around us.

Missing the old you, in your old bed,
saying the old things you used to say,
feeling the old way we used to feel--

arms and legs together,
unafraid,
more and more naked than before--

as we fight
and fight off sleep.

I wasn't really thinking about you this morning
when you called just to say "hello."
That's it--
You are my muse.
You are my music.