Sometimes it feels as if I am tattooed
with all the roads I refused to walk.

Whether they made me who I am, or shed
me of who I'm not, it's rather hard to tell.

I suppose it's all the same,
since I kept on walking anyway.

You can't fall in love during the summer. There are no shivering hands or burnt tongues or worn out coats. Sandy beaches are a poor substitute for autumn leaves, especially in the Midwest, and the heat will burn out new passion much too quickly. Love requires coughing on bonfire smoke and learning the difference between grey skies and rain.

You can't fall in love during the summer, but that's when I met you, and I think I'm starting to realize that not every rule is made to be broken, but every broken rule is made with consequences.

You can't fall in love during the summer, I know because we tried, and look where that choice has landed us.

Every minute without a word from you, was a reminder that you were thinking of someone else.

And every hour was another reason why I understood.

And every day caused another piece of me to go numb without your touch.

And every week reopened the wounds I had stitched up with your smiles.

And as the months have broken me down, I realize soon there will be nothing left to break.

I plucked words from your mouth like petals from a flower and let them settle in between my bones. So that when you stumble home with fire in your fists, your once-soft " I love you"s would soothe my aching skeleton from the inside out. But petals often wither, and their silk touch turns to dust, and these days you don't say "I love you" to replace the ones I've lost.

Does anyone have tips on collaborating with another writer on a piece?

I want to take 2am walks through towns so small,
that cops are sleeping instead of keeping watch,
and street lights glow only dimly because  no
respectable person would need their guidance at this hour.

I want to tell teachers that their textbooks make me tired,
challenge them to teach me every subject with the trunk of a stately oak tree.
One that has seen more than we could ever craft into notes or test questions,
and breathes out a life source healthier for us than the toxic tangents
lingering in this academic air space.

I want to take my romantic notions of life
and press them into the pages of a non-fiction book,
so that when you tell me I'm naive,
I can present you with the research
that keeps your cubicle heart pumping.

I want to cleanse your body of its lead paint logic,
and use my lips to tattoo all the natural beauty
you've missed behind classroom doors.

I want to show you the beauty of broken glass in small town alley ways.