I almost had my first kiss once.
Almost.
It was on a cold December night and thick pure snowflakes were falling.
Falling to be caught on my golden hair, or in his, slightly darker.
I stepped back into the shelter of my front porch
but not into my warm house, oh no. I was a prisoner.
Locked out and befriended by the cold winter.
But it was fine, because I was with him, but not perfect because we were both alone.
He, shooting hoops and me, waiting patiently and admirably.
So admirably.
In my eyes, everything he did was wonderful and exciting.
Worry filled me n the fact that something was off and something was on his mind.
Was it me? couldn't be. Maybe.
The frozen basketball rolled smoothly, almost practiced, off his hand.
and in his stiff voice he mouthed the need to come inside.
I shouldn't have left. I should have stayed and waited only 30 seconds... 45 seconds...a minute longer.
But, like most people, I fear the airiness of awkwardness
and the moments that you stand before a person and draw a blank and have not a word to say.
I feared it and I turned my back.
It could have been perfect. It would have been perfect.
had I just opened my eyes and seen, because I didn't see.
Looking back now, I see.
My first kiss was close.
So close.
So painfully close it taunts me.
It taunts me when I'm siting alone, pondering.
When I'm alone with him and we talk about things.
When my friend bring up their magical first kisses.
When I remember the fact that I still love him, after all these years.
When his hand lightly touches mine or accidentally brushes my back and I realize, it could've been so much more.
But mostly, it taunts me on cold winter nights
when the heavy white snow is lightly falling, catching in my golden hair or landing on his, slightly darker.

There is a secret I can't tell anybody.
It bursts from within me,
boiling my insides and
scratching on my heart.
It explodes out of me and
immediately,
it turns to mist.
It must.
There is a secret I can't tell anybody.
Secret stolen words
being played on a harpsichord
or a harmonica.
Which one is it?
Both touch my heart,
either in a beautiful spring song
or the lamenting notes of the blues,
coaxing my soul to sleep.
There is a secret I can't tell anybody.
Hidden in each drop of whiskey as we sing.
I still do cling to your picture for dear life.
Desperately.
Or is it slipped into the screws of my sunglasses. and hanging onto the fragments of my cut off jeans.
Seventeen. Seventeen.
Sixteen.
There is a secret I can't tell anybody. It's hidden in the way I feel when you touch my arm.
In between my heart strings when you hug me,
long.
Or the feeling deep down in the shank of my soul
when we say
***** you.
***** me.
***** us both.
and we'll both go to Hell.
Maybe for this secret,
maybe just to stay in love.
Can we please?
Stay in this raging sea?
There is a secret I can't tell anybody.
I will not tell a soul.
For if I do, I will only be causing the damnation of myself and this incarnate heart of mind.
But, I fear, I must talk to you about it. If I don't I will explode
and you will live with my guts on your face and my pulsating heart in the depth of your hand.
But,
I'm afraid if I do tell you my precious thoughts,
being vulnerable,
you will turn your back.
Like you usually do.
Like a bad habit.

Shatter it against the wall.

And you know I'm not the best guard of secrets.
Help me.

There is a secret I can't tell anybody.

Look at this fool.
This babbling fool that stands
over me.

A garden full of burning flowers
visible through his eyes,
but not through ear to ear.

The things that run from his mouth-
which I do not blame them from doing-
**** my brain cells.

He thinks I care.
All I want the former fool.
He who taught me all I know.

The walking book cover,
dictionary, Britannica.
The ultimate thesaurus, movie star.

Bob the Rabbit.
It's in its cage.
Say hi to Bob.

I admire you.
The temperature.
The west and east egg.

All I desire is again
to sit and look up and admirably
watch words spill out of his mouth.

Not these dead song birds
flying out of  his.
Not this spineless man walking

on his tongue.
Not, Not,
Not him.

In the distance, a foghorn yells, "No one cares!"
but he is Hellen Keller's doppelganger.
I am slowly going brain dead......

black.

Every time i see you, my mind goes blank.
Frustratingly, so do all the things i wish to say to you.
For some reason, though, our memories still dance before my eyes.
As i think maybe the same thing has happened to you,
Curiously, i look into your ocean eyes. and what do i see?
Emptiness.
Dead. you killed us. i am dead to you.

The most beautiful woman we both
know
is Tequila.

She wears a glass dress
that clashes when she dances
Makes a high pitch

ringing noise.
Tip her over.
Spill her

out.
Tip her back and drink
in her life.

Then stay the night
until I can taste death and
then become born again.

Is it a sunrise in my room?
Or is that where the sun sets?
I dont know, so

you tell me.
My head is pounding
from this light. The

way it seeps into my brain and
tries to stay.
Push it out.

I want to run away.
Let's get on a plane and fly
to Paris.

Let's just go.
Forget the world
and leave the Greeks and

fugitive slaves behind. Let
them worry about
themselves.

Birds migrate
to a place that's warm and
inviting.

A giant bird of metal
descends into heaven.
A heaven on fire.

We can walk the streets.
The ones I want to dance on,
under the stars blanketed in

the dark sky.
The stars.
My stars. French Stars.

Do you ever just laugh at
them? The stars?
It's silly to think they go on

for eternity.
I just saw one fall.
Like your hand to mine.

Collide with the earth.
Defective star.
Ignorant mass of Sun.

Find me a place to sleep for the night.
Snow white
minus six.

The wasted sun will wake my wasted
eyes.
Then we can walk.

Till the ends of the earth begin
and we can stay in
the beloved

city so
long we could stand
at each painting at the

Louvre
for hours.
Listen to me as I attempt to

be a philosopher.
Look at me like you're listening,
and listening to Mona Lisa.

Then we can go dancing.
Outside.
And maybe we wont be cold.

This time.
And maybe,
just maybe,

it will rain.

I cannot do this.
I fear.
I fear repetition.
Repetition that I crave, yet also repulses me at the same time.
An internal battle between neurons and ventricles and atriums.
My chest burst open today when I recognized the face
under that mocked brim and,
for two moments,
the Doppler effect was just something scientists invented to make themselves feel better.
But it all came crashing down without
the connection of soul windows.
Blue? Brown?
Who remembers.
Remember is such a simply complicated word.

I fear the anger
and the holes in the wall
and the murderous screams.
and ripping church out of ears and heart and mind.
cause that hurts.

I fear November.
My best and worst two days in heaven.
And how badly I would...do...want that to happen again.

Next I fear the eyeless,
lipstick,
lover of hands.
The shallow one with a faux deep soul.
The hypocrite.
Her acid words that burn through screens.
They rip away the moment they penetrate my skin and touch my heart.
I fear her disapproval.
because she will disapprove,
this I know.
Silver tongue like the snake.
Venom pointed at me, her sister.
Betrayed.
So she will disapprove and that means much.

Then I fear giving half of my heart,
that is his,
away.
Well, it wouldn't be half, because is it still dipped deep in love.
So a sixteenth of my heart-his heart- and that is still much.
For us.

It is just a crush. and that is it.
But isn't that how everything starts?
Tender pressings on your heart until they become the pulses and beats and poundings and crushing sensations.
Once.
Once.
Only once that has happened to me.
Still is.
And even if it is unrequited,
I fear losing that.
I fear fearing.
I fear rejection.
I fear losing the one thing that I care about.
and I fear not finding something.
Or finding it to only lose it in a few months time.

So I will refrain.