In South America, truck drivers are paid collossal amounts
of money, to deliver supplies between towns on
roads, no wider than the width of their trucks.

When you turned up on my doorstep that sunday in the rain,
your eyes told me before your lips did.

Sixty three hundred days is a long long time to wait for someone,
but I would do it all over again,
if it meant I could fall asleep in your arms one last time.

Next Autumn when the leaves turn rusty and fall from the trees,
I'll remember the afternoon we spent in Victoria park,
where you waded to the middle of the duckpond,
just because I said you wouldn't.

Your mother always told me when we stacked away the good china after Sunday lunch,
that your stubborness always got in the way of what was right.

You've been gone eight hours and still nobodies reminded me how difficult I can be at times.

Eight months later and everytime the phone rings I imagine your voice crackling down the line "come get me from the supermarket, I have sugar buns. "

If hell is engulfed in fire
as bright as the sun,
And heaven is lit
by a divine light,
Then I shall die with sunglasses.

i woke up at three a.m.
my eyes wide
breathing hard and
shaking.

a sharp intake of breath
works to calm my nerves
while my fingers ache
and my hands tremble unfeeling.
i arouse my legs to wakefulness—
slide them from the warm comfort of my bed
to the piercing chill of the hard wooden floor.

coat on, feet slipped into boots;
i go for a walk
hoping that a trip ‘round the block will
calm the sudden gaping fissure inside of me.
after the door swings shut behind me,
i turn to face the unyielding darkness.

with my breath condensing into a moist cloud in front
i confront the empty street.
her tenebrous maw
snaps at my unprotected ankles;
her chill wind
cracks my lips, leaving them ******.
i feel her reaching deep inside of me
grasping at where there is nothing.

when i see the ice accumulating on the neighbors’ lawns,
i realize that an under-dressed walk through the murky night
might not have been the best idea.
only then do i question why i’m here.
what i’m doing, wandering the dark corridors of our quiet suburb,
sheltered from reality.

it’s disconcerting to be lost, isn’t it?

You make my body quiver,
shake with passion caged.
Each breath I take shivers,
as my mind screams no, enraged.

My heart and body disagree,
calling out their qualms
all the while I kneel and plea
my hands pressed palm to palm.

But we’re not Shakespeare’s palmers
kissing hand to hand.
I try to rise, now calmer,
but find I cannot stand.

I duel against my love for you, blow by blow by blow
I cannot win against myself, my love can only grow.

i am obsessed, it is true
Obsessed with him, with them, so blue!
and all the while i am late again
for the disillusionment and sin
all this chaos and nothingness aside
i really hope it is soon i can die

My palms open up, always.
As your fingers dance across,
and down, down in some kind of
fragmented ballet
sweeping up all I have left
to give to a boy
like you
I know how you are
You're the one
my mother warned me about
You're the
"I should of known better,
Should of learned,
Should of grown"
Everyone else is always right
But me,
I keep spinning the same circles,
until I'm completely dizzy with the thought
of such infactuation,
Always giving too much,
and receiving little to
nothing back
Your world could have been served
to you on a silver platter,
I would have came to you with
so much

love.

"Too much love,"
as you would say.
I had never heard of such a thing,
until I met you.