every morning at 8:13am, she texts me
“the birds by my window keep my mind running
at 5:20am, just like the way you’ve captured me.
every thought at 2:57am sounds like a prayer if
i think hard enough, but i’m afraid god is gonna hear
me this time. i have this obsession with circles and
i don’t think my life is on the right path.”

but all my mother ever taught me to answer was:
“maybe god will hear me this time because lately,
my heart’s been playing jump rope whenever
i see your name light up on my phone. i pray every
night at 2:56 in the morning so maybe one day,
i’ll be in your mind and god will hear you say my
name in your voice.”
the birds are a present from me, i’m sorry.

I wish that maybe you weren’t so afraid.

Those were the only words I could conjure from my mouth last night, when I should have been pleading for you to take my hand.

I am not talking cheesy wedding bells and frilly dress nonsense.

Just take my **** hand and let me show you why I love you.

There are no strings attached with me, and don’t you dare tell me that you that you cannot see how loyal I am to you. I should have pleaded my case right then and there, but I am now, and I want you to listen to me.

Writing a love poem is hard now a days. It seems like everything has been said and done in almost every conceivable way.

I don’t want to spell you hand-me-down words.

I want to spoon feed you the lust from my soul as if it were a book that had never been written. Let the words I write for you spread across the decades for all to serenade a doll like you.

I want you to cherish our romance.

I see you for what you are and I see that there is potential for me to hopelessly fall. I may be a tad bit reckless with the way that I toss about my words for you like a lust struck conundrum, but try to see me for what I am.

My hands are reaching for your heart.

Let me in.

I’ve been knocking on that door of yours for days now, and I just want to know if I’m going to get my fair shake at this. I cannot sit here and blab my trap about how or why I’m so different, but I know you can see it in my eyes. I will lose the rest of my hope in this world, if I do not get my fair shake at this.

Take my hand please. I’ll gladly get down on my knees and explain to you why graveling doesn’t suit me, but at this point, I’ll do anything to make this a reality.

I want to show you that chivalry isn’t dead, and that I would do just about anything to be able buy you a 15 cent Coke and take you to the drive in movie in my thunderbird.

This is the heat of summer, this is it.

I’m here.

So spare yourself the conscious scrutiny of my demise, and give me a chance.

You won’t be sorry.

I ask myself if I can do it
knowing deep down I can't
but the aching failure follows me
and calls me back again.
I oblige once more and get my pen,
sliding it angrily against this paper
because this crap is better than
a
blank
page.

in my coat pockets you will find:
a bunch of crumpled up receipts scribbled
with love letters i thought of reciting to you;
a pack of cigarettes that i feel is more
for the artistic sense than the addictive;
a mini-lighter on which i wrote the name
of my favorite rapper; and
a beanie she bought me only a year ago.
i’ve taken you on seventeen dates already in my mind
and i think i can imagine the sound
of your voice when you say
“i love you” and the shape the creases on the
edges of your lips make when you smile
back because i said “i love you too.”
but this is only my imagination and sometimes
that ****** thing just runs wild.