It got quiet real fast last night.
Not like usual where the people outside the walls screech until 2am when they finally stumble back to their respective beds.
It must've been too cold for screeching and wandering last night.
Because it got real quiet. Right around 12.

And it was the kind of quiet that makes you both tense and relaxed.
Afraid to move or you'll disturb it, but calm in the middle of it all because silence is rare.
In fact there's no such thing.
Everything makes noise,
When you roll over, the wind, the lone car that drove past, and your breathing.
Especially the breathing.
It's noisy in it's own quiet way just a vital in and out that keeps you alive.

Lungs like attention, they like to be heard.
Even when they're not shouting angry profanities, or cheers, or whispering I love yous...they make their gentle in-out whoosh. Reminding you that you're alive and that's
a splendid and spectacular notion

Yes
He said
I miss
Your kiss.
I can't dismiss
Your touch,
I miss so much.
My words dancing
On your tongue
He said.
The kiss I miss,
The thoughts
I can't dismiss.
Fizzes in my brain
Do you feel the same?
He said
Yes
she said,
With bated breath.
I miss the kiss
I can't dismiss
Your touch
I miss so much.
Will you
Take your kiss
Place it on my lips
That miss your touch
So much?

Never drink to distract yourself
It always ends in success.
But once you remember what you were trying to forget,
You have a crash
There is a burn,
A sting of memory.

And there's no forgetting
What's been singed inside your head.
Those times between sheets,
And kisses and fond memories.
Permanent are these for you to keep,
Despite desperate attempts of forgetting.

Everything is blurry except those mental pictures,
Even Milwaukee's Finest can't drown those primest
memories you have.
And everything ends in the singular thought...
I wish. You. Were. Here.

We've replaced
"Once upon a time"
          with
"I once read online"

All eggs were in one basket,
so no wonder you're reserved ever since they broke.
Shells are messy and hard to work with.
She gave you eggs the last time. But I'm not her.
Let's not give each other eggs.

Let's give ourselves bread instead.
Because all your bread in a basket sounds warm,
picnics in parks on sunny days warm.

Or fresh out the oven still steaming hot.
Frosted and sweet, or sourdough. All your bread in one basket,
there's so much to work with.
Even cold bread, and stale bread.
Because at least when molding bread falls out
of your metaphorical basket you can pick it up
in one piece and put it back.
Or make more. You can fix it.

Eggs aren't that easy. They shatter. They're messy.
So my dear let's not be eggs. Let's be bread.

"It's ok to cry just don't let them see."
Words my mother taught me.
She never told me who "them" was supposed to be.

So I assumed them was the world and built up walls.
Not to push people away,
just to protect myself-
from unspecified dangers and risks.
Like heartbreak, and heartache and being breakable.

But brick by brick you're crumbling those walls.
Without even trying, there's no force at all.

And I feel like Jericho,
where suddenly I'll be open...
And what if I get burned too?