we keep the house cold
so that we can trace life
out of the puffs of clouds
that hum from our lips.
as he skates off the bed
feet nibbling
at the floor boards,
arms drizzling
past his waist,
he sits on the edge of the air
changing what filters into my lungs
with each yawn that stretches from him-
his pale back angled to my face, I
stretch my legs towards him,
resting my feet on his back,
toes tucking into the brails
of his spine,
and we wait within
the beauty of those ripe days,
when everything fell
on our swollen eyelids.

i think people die because they're all used up. whether they're 18 or 80, something inside them has run out of fuel. something inside them wants to be loved, or idolized, or immortalized or whatever they're after and they've run out of whatever makes it happen. so they die or they **** themselves and they fulfill their greatest desire; to be lost, to be mourned, and to escape the void they've been digging themselves out of their entire lives. six feet under.

i worry about him all
the time*
i told you and
you shook your head like
you knew all too well

eleven nights later,
you tell me to get some
sleep, you say i worry about
you all the time

and i'm starting to think
it's code for people who
are trying to say 'i love you'
to someone who doesn't
love them back

i am done with being
strong; i am not an earthquake
or a hurricane, and this is not
natural, just a disaster

i want to collapse,
i want to relax,
i want to relapse

you said-
thinking about the stars
makes me feel so small

but we sat there 'til we
were shaking in the cold,
and i had never felt
bigger.

and i wish i knew
how to love you
back

the problem is that none of
them are you; i don't know if
that's how love works, or if
this is just fear