"You can only fix broken things"
You said as I stared right into your soul
My heart beating inside my chest, slowly
Hoping with a fragile hope

"You can only fix broken things"
You said while watching the sun set
My hands went numb, fingers useless
Wishing you noticed but all you did was look 

"You can only fix broken things"
But all I wanted was to hold you
To love you slowly 
In fear of losing and breaking myself too 

"You can only fix broken things"
I said when I realized I'm not good enough
Filling the space between us with empty promises
As I drifted off to sleep, I only knew one thing:
That I cannot fix broken things

Grandma with her crooked fingers
Told me all her secrets
She could not speak, she could not hear
Her fingers spoke, her eyes heard all

Grandma with her crooked fingers
Told me to always walk straight
Crooked things she said are bad
Unless they're crooked body parts

Grandma with her crooked fingers
Told me to always speak straight
Crooked words she said plant doubts
Unless they're crooked with natural fault

Grandma with her crooked fingers
Told me to always work straight
Crooked ways she said dig graves
Unless they're crooked by form

Grandma with her crooked fingers
Told me how to live a life-
With her crooked ways and crooked words;
In a not-so-crooked manner

~Moniba.

People who fight
their battles alone
either lose the battle
or lose themselves.

if there's only one thing I could do all my life;
it would be to know you - *all of you.

The sloppy rain slips and slides down the fogged-up windows,
and this lets me know that I am not as small as I think I am.
In a city of three million plus, I feel like the soul of a nation,
even though I'm just a twenty-one year-old piece of plastic, drinking a hipster beer.

The waitress has frizzy hair and oily skin.
She's holding in late-night infomercials and missed ballet recitals, behind her words.
She looks at my luggage and asks where I came from or where I'm going,
and I tell her that the fun thing is that I have no idea where I'm going --
and that I still haven't decided where I've came from.

This city allows new-found anonymity, and I want that to be my cause.
With each passing glance, I know they don't see me, and, to me, that's the slumber-kissed throat-slit I've always dreamt of...

...the streets play music that I only hear -- and I know that's not fair, but I don't care.

And the homeless represent the bowels of the city.
And the businessmen are the ghost-filled engine.
And the middle class is the defense-mechanism I always wanted for Christmas.
And I am the empty delusion, desperately seeking a new pollution.

When I talk God I mean:
You

You are the twinkling stars
that light up
my night sky:
constant,
full of hope,
beautiful,



Distant.

You taste like
cotton candy dreams,
sugar snap peas,
cold coffee,
and
intimate fantasies.
You are the
watermelon pop rocks
that tingle on my tongue.

You feel like
a roaring fire,
a tickle down my spine,
a belly laugh,
and
a brand new promise.
You are the
static electricity
that zaps my skin.

You look like
my past,
my present,
my future,
and
my forever.
*You are the
man that
I love.