with eyelashes like tree leaves
oh she stuck to me; like the glue
that sleeps on my fingers she stuck,
to me. with eyes like the sun and kisses
like stunning bees, I wouldn't mind
dying to her lips. her eyes made me numb
and her voice made me dumb and
her mind made me fall in love with her all over again.
/
I kissed his fingers softly
(I loved the smell of citrus.)
I whispered in her ears and loved her endlessly (occasionally.)
/

He has wide eyes and dark hair.
He walks like he carries the world around
with him. With earphones constantly in his ears
and music continuously playing in his brain,  
I watch and wonder what he listens to.

The dark circles around his eyes tell me that he's
into indie rock; though that may also just imply
that he lacks sleep. His deep and nonchalant gaze
tells me that he's gone; that he lives far far away,
in his mind.

the train's presence blows her hair
as the sleeping dust on the tracks
run to meet her face.
-
she wants time to slow
and the aftenoon to go by fast;
she indecisively decides
to take the second train.
-
She wonders how they're doing.
are they having fun in the cold; she
wonders if they're tasting the bitter
wind against their harsh tongues;
or if they feel the amount of angst
and anger she does, currently.
-
She tastes the quiet breeze
against her sweet tongue, back aching
in thought, her mind and eyes blurring
out what's happening right now:
on the train she's on.

I'm writing with butter stained lips
and popcorn residued fingertips.
I'm looking at the ceiling, watching
frosted rain fall from the clouds
and onto my window (the curtains
looked rather nice).

everything dies
in the end. even you.

and oh how I wished we didn't have to die.
at least not today. at least not you. I mean you,
oh you tasted like.. like vanilla and I never really enjoyed chocolate.

I preferred the better things
and you gave none of them to me. so why
didn't I want you to die? Maybe it was how the sun would cross your bedroom and how your flat brown eyes would light up the whole room, something my aura always used to do.

Maybe it was when I finally realized how boring death would be without you (and I've wanted to die for a very long time). Not looking to your eyes and having my life viewed right back at me would be kind of sad.

Maybe I didn't want you to die because you were the only one who gave my life meaning.

our toes were cold, my left hand warm.
It smelt like mushrooms and Alfredo.
He kissed me in paradise and in Paris, though
there wasn't much of a difference (your lips still had the smooth feel of glass, sharp edges included).

I smiled at the nonchalant music, paying
absolutely no attention to the things they said.

we have a weird relationship.

it's like we both want to talk to each other,
yet we have nothing to say

or maybe we do
but we don't want to say it

or maybe we actually do want to say it,
but we don't know how to phrase it.

though we do have the words..
but are they the right ones?


maybe we don't talk to each other
because of the things that run through our minds.