We have a brownstone townhouse kind of love
The kind that we can cover with the murals of our madness
With the paint of our perfection
That's built on the floorboards of our expectations

The number always changes but the people never seem to

I would like our love
To not be measures in square feet,
But with the creeping doors and narrow staircases.
The closets stopped hiding the things we asked them to
And my skeletons lay sprawled
All hip bones
Vertebrae
and rib cages
What has become of me?
I asked myself
and your look said unfamiliarity
and an animosity
Which I never thought possible.
Your smile spelt out greed
And your vocal chords never articulates the syllables I wanted them to.

You used me.
An I fell for it.
Is love just muscle memory?
Are we all just reacting the same way we did the first time?

we didn’t leave until 4 am.
told each other stories from high school
talked about religion and how it wasn’t really my thing,
and how she wasn’t really sure of her take on it,
examined our hands and compared the sizes,
discussed how she used to be a cheerleader,
our parents and their political tendencies,
and some mutual friends.

I already knew about her ex-boyfriend
through a mutual friend or two,
the self-proclaimed ******* of our generation,
trying too hard to be hip and who probably
***** himself to pictures of Kerouac and Hemingway.
all this while listening to Iron & Wine
‘cause that makes it art.

yeah. I knew about him.

and I had heard he claimed to respect women
from a couple of people.
and a couple of people told me he didn’t.
a conniving schemer disguised as a feminist,
nothing new.

I also knew about the ******* she'd
been "talking to" or some **** like that.
it didn't seem to matter much to me
or to her
so I figured that was all right.

we left the pancake joint and went back to her
place.
watched a Tarantino film and chatted about
deep topics carelessly,
exhaling want.

she shared some of her writing with me
and as morning approached
we locked arms and bodies,
her chin on my shoulder and
I snuck a kiss in her hair.
at once, our skin seemed in the way,
a barrier between us I wished to strip.

her roommate and a mutual friend
awoke and I waited while they got
ready and Lauren grabbed breakfast.

on the way out to my car,
following the two of them
I thought of past lovers and dismissed them
as I ate my heart out of my hands
and waited for my mind to settle,
but instead it rattled about all the how's
and why's of my draw.
I buried the key in the ignition,
we pulled away from away and towards
together.

My body is vertical
parallel to my mattress.
My ears pick up the mites
eating away at my dead skin
the dust mites prowl the forests
of my eyebrows.

My body is emaciated
the head to heavy to hold up
my collar bones are fragile
the aching is dull and resounding
vibrating between shoulder to shoulder.

My stomach is a sloshing sack
spilling acid in waves through my
esophagus,
burning away flesh.

Burning away my flesh
and will,
darkening my years of life
lived full, happy and long.

I’m a smiling gun.
Trick you then treat you
To a taste of pain.
I taste of hate
Anger in my bones when you bite
Skin of plague and teeth of plight
How could you ever survive?

But I survive when she comes
I flourish in the black-spotted sun
I no longer want night unless it’s with her
And my only reason for day is to
See her face.

I wish for blindness, if only for a moment
A better sensation of touch
With lush uncertainty
Tracing every outline
The boundaries, where skin meets air,
my fingertips won’t cross.

In the morning I take her home
Go back to my apartment
I’m greeted by my roommates
And I shower.
Thinking about these nights
I have to brace myself with the tile

I get out, dress, and walk to class
She meets me in the hallway.
I lose my breath and almost my nerve as always
Talking to her is easier, but still
Hard at the same time.
I don’t want to mess up.
But Christ, there she is.

I can see again.

I am a fading, cynical ****,
that has no room to throw
any advice at anyone.

But just because I don't have room,
doesn't mean I'm not going to give it.

Don't love him completely.
At least don't ever let him see it.
Keep him guessing,
give with restraint,
don't tell him your favorite spots,
let him revel in discovery,
don't trust him,
he'll abuse it,
don't tell him about me,
it will only inspire rolling eyes.

Make him pins and needles,
make him feel frightened,
make him need you,
you deserve to be in control.

Above all love yourself.
That's when you are at your prettiest.

My superstitions are pH balanced,
like the apple pickers
and the gardeners with their
fingers entwined in the language
of the landscape, organic and fresh.

But the label says it's going
to happen. Dark, rich life will fall
from the roots of the tree that’s been cajoled
from its nest and perlite, a fool’s gold, will sprinkle
into worshipping hands.

We will stand on that soil and call it a revolution
asking for wonder drugs, stirring them into a cup of good day Earth.
Starving in sleep I will drink from that brew and
my eyes will open to the naked alarm clock.

Coming in from the cold, our frosted breaths will remind us that
at any breeze we could be blown from this rock.

we rejoiced
when the sign on the parking meter said we could park for free.

your kind hand
in clumsy mind,

we strolled.

we were caught between the arts and business district,
so the shops and eateries weren't
sure if they should be cool or classy.

we strolled.

we passed an army of delis now abandoned.
a greek place,
a gelato,
a couple of hotel diners,
we rounded the block,
came back close to our start,
decided on the only restaurant
that was open.

as we were seated,
the already present patrons
stared ceaselessly, with no blinking.

people always stare at us.
i think they have trouble
categorizing us.

we aren't fat.
i don't wear affliction t-shirts,
you don't dress ******,
we are caught somewhere
between the summer of '72 and indie rock brats.

our waiter was uneasy,
he had black hair, a beard,
a voice that squeaked and stuttered
as he boasted the organic and local support
the restaurant waved as their prideful flag.

order taken, people still throwing quick glances,
the music was right up our alley.

we took turns saying the names of the bands.
Cake, The Strokes, Spoon (the setlist's favorite), a deep cut from Bowie's Low, and a multitude of indie darlings that i can't remember.

i fell in love with you again.
i guess that makes the fifth or sixth time.
your child's eyes,
warm laughter,
and noble concern for the ****** state of the world.

it was good conversation,
it was good food,
it was a pleasant warm-up
for the remainder of our
getaway weekend.

"i just think it's weird people value the heart so much."

"why do you say that?"

"i mean what does it do? pump blood. big deal. i want a world where genitals are valued the same way the heart is now. think about it. they are the physical manifestation of love. that beats the crap out of pumping blood."