WE that have done and thought,
That have thought and done,
Must ramble, and thin out
Like milk spilt on a stone.

I'll be waiting,
     for the day we become one
I'll be waiting,
     'till the day you return
I'll be waiting,
     with my heart still open for you
No matter how long,
      i'll be waiting for You

he asked what I wanted to do. I said
write poetry
or
die.
he said
they were the same.

A solar sunflower danced on her dashboard
and the lei on the rearview hit me like a snakebite.
Scented trees beneath my feet smelled like a flower shop
fire. Her seatbelt was knotted like her shoelaces
and her lemon lips kept me coming back.
Between us on the highway were CD cases and enough
loose change for a sweet tea. We turned off the radio
and listened to the roar of the wind through her cracked
windows. Her dress' hem flattened on her thighs
like the moon. Four hours to a truck stop with curios
and 75 cent ****** machines in the bathrooms.
Her doors creaked on their hinges as we danced
our way to the concrete.

I stayed up late last night writing you this letter
by desk lamp while you were three streets
down in Nowhere drowning in boxed wine.
If you got caught, the box'd be bigger with iron
bars and a bench where you'd sit and reminisce
about two hours ago when you were too gone
to sit down. Mismatched couch cushions
and black light posters of Marley and psychosexual
women in spandex. Then there's you with a cup
in your hand and a hole in your skirt, dabbing
the corners of your mouth with my late night
confessions. Thank you.

Sheepishly held-down dental floss
guitar strings and cracked hands
like sink-side toothpaste.
Cuspid picks in a mint-scented, plastic bag beneath textbooks
and a zipper rusted like gingivitis.
A backstage house of pamphlets
slurred time like novocaine speech. Thirty-two people sat at coffee-stained tables talking about their routines between sips of créme de menthe cocktails and water.
Fluoride lyrics dripped from his mouth as people closed theirs.

I took a shower with Heaven
once under
a brilliant
sky of splashed milk.

She exploded,
   then giggled
at our *******-sounds,
the beautiful noises
we made in earnestness
up against the slippery wall.

I often build the house we could live in
With massive windows and towering ceilings
And an odd arrangement of candles that I'm so fond of
And you'll never see it but
That's ok.
And I do it all the hard way.
Because that's the truth about us.
It's hard and it won't ever happen but if it did
God wouldn't that be something