A quick whip of the wrist
and I've fallen.
I see gentle fingers
and porcupine hair.
Porcupines' aren't real.
They're fantastical creatures we made up.
You're mellow
your voice is hollow as your breath can be
well-labored and painful looking.
Is see beyond your bedroom eyes
and your needs
that say you to be the big spoon
in the little spoon bunch.
The last one put down,
the first one picked up.
Turned over of lust
and anxiety.
You're mellow
your voice is hollow as your face can be.
Life-like giraffe linen curtains
beckon me to
rest in your arms.
The length of your body from ceiling to floor
is equally as fantastical as
a made up creature.
The moon cries in equal fear that
it will not see me to be with you
for we are too far
and too late.
Like an enraged teenage girl
it turns itself over for a new day.
Listen;
there is a hell of a good universe next door.
Let's
go.

When I came over to your apartment
a couple of days ago
We pushed the couch to face the wall,
and tipped the lamp over
making it a projector for our hand's silhouettes in the light.
I taught you to speak in a Liverpool accent
Your voice glazed my ears like honey
dripping sweet vowels
Carrying your breath
To disperse in the air around us,
like fog.
And I feared that if I should touch
The glaze you left me
I would smear the sugar
and muffle the sounds.
But you spoke to me.
You spoke to me with your hands
casting shadows like magic
Speaking of time being a string
and we walk across it.
All of the time that ever has been.
And you stopped.
You stopped waving magic around.
You stopped casting pretty shadows.
You looked at me and asked me
if I would go back.
No I wouldn't. I'd be an elephant on a tightrope
Weighing the tiny string down
Walking across time,
Nimble toes
Forward, or backward.
Whichever way you are going. I could follow.

To someone just like me;
Be my hero and pop out of the closet.
Be my savior and erupt from my ***** bathwater.
Be my true friend and stand up to Grandma and tell her to '*******,'
because it's our life, body, and future, and we can do what we want.
Be my revolution by leading me away from a diploma and into a traveling backpack
that bounces in the dirt of Arizona, and grazes the meadows of Oregon's woods.
Be my friend and tell me what I'm doing wrong. Smack my wrist, but not too hard.
To someone just like me, only more tired, please go to sleep.

Sometimes
When the moon is up
I think of you,
More
Than when it isn't.
Out of a sense of fear
More so
Than anything else.
A security blanket.
Under that blanket
We'll hide.
You'll reach far down  near me
and
Touch glazed candies
and
Pull away shy,
because you don't understand why you did.
We'll bury ourselves deeper into the
Fabric squares our families made us into.
We'll make ourselves comfortable to
the texture and the sounds they make
When it chafes our skin and nails.
The doors will open,
hallway lights will prey on the dark and
We'll snicker rubbing our toes together.

I've been thinking of the stars,
and all I picture are doorknobs.
Ones I hope you twist open.
The one to my sanctuary.
The sactuary which houses my bed and technology.
The place that smells like me.
The handle is always yearning your touch
It extends itself to every hand that reaches
and locks itself when it realizes that
the hand reaching for it is not your own.
It locks when it knows that it is not you,
And it never is.
I've been thinking of the stars and
All I see are beards.
Blankets of ****** hair.
And thick arms.
And legs.
And I wish that your feet arms and legs
and your whole self
would creak through my room.
Gazing at me glued on my stomach
with my eyes bleeding onto the screen.
I've been thinking of the stars and
All I really end up thinking of
Are you,
your shoes when I step in them
and attempt to walk
And understand that it is hard to
When you're going a long distance.

Sometimes I think you're a druggie.
Because when I'm with you
I feel like we are
Redundant noises and images
And snorts of laughter
And we are holding each other tongues.
And I feel like
There are stars in your eyes
that are buzzing further into this dark hole.
In my mind thinking of you in a heavy coat
smoking when you're away.
You'll never know I write in cursive.
Because you want my words
From my lips instead
And you choose to peel them off
by typing letters into your phone
By thinking of what each letter in my name means
And you put the phone in your pocket
And think of the squack of a voice I have
And you picture my legs
thick with an ivory curtain surrounding them.
And the red on my lips speaking
Of the thing I know least of.
And that is love.