I've let the world know that I love you (though my soul has loved you longer than my bones have known you) for 366 days now. I don't know how many days make up the centuries to come, but whichever the number is will be the number they put in the record books. "The Man Who Was Loved the Most and the Longest" the photograph will be of you, smiling aged in a worn out chair, wrinkled eyes and grayed hairs. And i'll be there, leaning into your side with a smile wider than any famous canal, prouder than any other historical landmark. Stronger than any ship that's sailed earth's raging waters.
Yeah, we'll own the record books and the text books and the bibles to come. Each page will have our names written somewhere, microscopic in the ink of every line and every marking will be with our love laced. There won't be a pixel without a hex code that doesn't decipher in beyond cryptic ways to our lattitudes/longitudes, names or even our own birthdates or anniversary dates. No one will know it, but we're gonna rule the world someday. Now be it so that the world we rule will not the same as the world the Other's know, it will be the world just the same. Though what we'll conquer will exist in only invisible dimensional planes (such as our brains), it's still ours to take.

how could i deny the taste
of the lips that changed
every single part of me?
the stars crossed us so
tightly bound that i know
there's good reason to
laugh at the idea of 'escape'

there ain't no escaping you babe

i turn to face you,
having just had you
lolling in the sleeping afterglow
but you're not beside me
you're inside of me
hovering just centimeters over me
wrapping warm my body
in your silk blankets,
a heartbeat swaddled.
when did you start to love me so much?
weren't it just yesterday
you had me clinging to
ceramic tiles for any sense
of comfort while my
insides were spilling out?

i suppose i always
asked for a lover
as complicated as this.

you ask for ***
in the most pathetic ways
pawing at my jeans
making puppy eyes at me.

dropping obvious hints
"i want you" &
singing about my skin.

sometimes you make me sick

aches in the old familiar way
that your heart once did
as a child, begging for love
as your mother's side,
to be quietly pushed away.
to have been shut up with
television, pills, food

(to think of your youth
well there's no word
to describe the guilt.
your mere birth was an
act of abuse on humanity,
wasn't it?)

this new ache though
leads to a progression
a growth in shrinkage
a strength in will that
you never thought was real.

this ache takes you
to a secret hidden place
full of the shimmering hope
that you'll feel whole one day.

sitting in the ****** sunlight
pondering **** Jagger
and who’ll inherit his lips when he dies.
smoke chains from my mouth and
Motown comes to mind.
What I Got is a pregnant cat
with cautious green eyes.
what i think i’ll do is wait,
but when will i stop?

i’ve read my calendars
birthed my charts
and i still can’t decide.

wind blows up my shirt
school buses scream by.
Hey, Children, Hi.

my nicoteen teeth burp
and i’m pushing out a cigarette
heading back inside.