My friend is a painter.
My friend is a singer.
Self-sabotage is the only thing I'm good at.

The thunder clouds are rolling in
And all I want is your skin
On my skin
The taste of your sheets
In my mouth
As I bite down
Hard
They smell like you
Like us
Our lust
And the rain on the roof
The whisper on your lips
A kiss
A moan
An unsuppressed groan
When you touch me
With fire
Fingers crooked and long
Our bodies together
Dance to a song
The music we make
My whole body aches
For you
For us
Our lust
In these sheets
I taste
A future
Where this
Rainy day bliss
Of your skin
On my skin
Long after the sunshine
Has filtered back in

You told me I was your
terra firma
because you could always
count on me to be there
when even you
didn't want to be there

I relished the fact that you
would consider me your
anything
let alone something
that sounded so strong and
beautiful

Your extraplanetary misadventures
in love and lust and
all things fleeting
left your wobbly legs aching for
solid ground

But you should know
I'm here to hold you up
not for you to
walk all over

I’m thankful for your cold shoulder
Turned away from me.
Unflinching.

I’m thankful for your taste in movies
Satirical horror.
Running time: 1 hour 35 minutes.

I’m thankful you didn’t kiss me
Lips pressed together tight.
Unwavering.

I’m thankful for the goodbye hug
Lopsided and callous.
Approximately 3 seconds.

And mostly, I’m thankful
You decided you were through with me at 10:56.
And not 10:57.

Because I made every green light
On the way home from your apartment.

This is the poem where she stays.
This is the poem where her hand grazes
the doorknob, turns 45 degrees
then stops.
She stands still staring at a spot
just above the doorframe.
(What is that—a water stain?)
She bites her lip and waits;
listens
to your apologies stuck
like a lump in your throat.
And you watch her hand twitch
and you pray
that she doesn’t turn the doorknob
any further.

This is the poem where she turns around.
This is the poem where she gives
you an icy stare
but she stays; sits
in her favorite chair.
She crosses her legs and she waits;
listens
to your frantic explanations
about why you did what you did and
how you’ll never do it again.
And she wonders
if you really mean it.

This is the poem where you kiss her.
This is the poem where she doesn’t resist,
but doesn’t quite reciprocate.
She takes her bag back
to the bedroom to unpack
and you stand there and wait;
listening
to see if she starts putting her stuff away
where it belongs, or if instead
she puts the packed bag by the bed
incase she changes her mind.

This is the poem where you come home late
from work the next day.
This is the poem where she pushes you away.
She screams and makes threats
about the bag by the bed.
She’ll leave you—she swears it.
Just give her a reason.
You calm her down with words
like “I love you,” and “Trust me.”
****** forth your phone
“Call the office, if you must, babe.”
She walks towards the bedroom
and you stand there and wait;
listening
to see if you can hear the exact moment
when she stops loving you.

This is the poem where she leaves, anyway.
This is the poem where she doesn’t look back
as you beg and you plead
and grovel on your knees.
You paint a picture with your words
of your life before this.
How you wish it never happened!
“What if it never happened?”
She stops and she drops
her bag on the floor
She turns and she stares
at you in the door.
“You can’t change the past.
You can’t wish it away.
It’s just not that kind of poem, babe.
This is not the poem where I stay.”

If bad things come in threes,
Why do good things come one at a time?
Why do the bad things lead to the development of bad habits
Sleeping till noon, ******* down cigarettes
Like they contain oxygen.

Yet the good things are fleeting.
Not even around long enough to take a picture,
To hang on a cracking cork board above my bed.

I will only be comfortable
If you're as uncomfortable as I am.
I'll only let my guard down
If you let yours down first.

Someone once told me
That in every relationship
One person always cares more than the other.
One person's attachment runs a little bit deeper.

Ignorance is bliss,
But power and control,
I can't relinquish that.

Get some sleep, if you can.
It won’t be long before you have to start up again.
Go through the motions.
Smile when it’s expected.
Speak when it’s appropriate.
For a moment yesterday, you contemplated running away.
No, not running, walking.
For the only thing worth running from is yourself,
And darling, even you know better than that.
Leave.
Drive north until you feel like stopping.
With music loud, tank filled up, and a heart unchained,
You would drive.
Until you found beauty.
Until you found purpose.
Until the map turned blue.
Save it for a rainy day?
But the only difference is water, baby.
Cause you’ve got dark clouds aplenty.

He veers to the left when he walks
in and out of lives
up and down city streets.
His gait clumsy
and haphazard
bumping passersby
and knocking glasses off tables.
Slack jawed stares and
excited whispers;
unphased
unwavering
steady in his unsteadiness.
He meanders down alleyways;
breaking hearts
and preconceived notions about
what a vagabond should
or shouldn’t be.

You run your fingers across maps
Like you are caressing the cheek
of your dying lover
for the last time

When you said you liked me,
I smiled.
And when I went home,
I smiled.

When you said you liked my poems,
I smiled.
And when I went home,
I cried.

Bated breath;
dry lips parted
attached
to tense limbs
and
cold feet stamped
on wet pavement.

waiting on words
to flow
from a swollen tongue
thick
with empty promises.

red eyes watch
with a façade of
jaded apathy
given away only
by dry lips,
tense limbs,
and cold feet.

When I say that I love you,
I mean that right now,
in this moment,
I am in love with you.
I mean that I care about you.
I mean, that right now,
in this moment,
I would like to be with you for the long run.
I mean that right now,
in this moment,
I can see myself being with you forever.

When I say that I love you,
I do NOT mean that I can promise that I WILL love you forever.
It only means that right now,
in this moment,
I would like to try.
I do NOT mean that I think loving you will be easy.
It only means that right now,
in this moment,
I think it will be worth it.
I do NOT mean that I expect you to always agree with me.
I do NOT mean that I expect you to love me in exactly the same way.
I ONLY mean that I hope that you can try
to love me too.

Your windblown hair and
your windbound heart
inhabit a single memory.
Sad eyes in the rearview mirror
Pursed lips and perverted thoughts
Like how your hand resting on her thigh
should be resting on mine
instead.

The way her lipstick stains
the rim of her wine glass,
and the way she uses
the back of her hand
to wipe away the purple
drops from her
perfect lips
is so
*******
gorgeous.
And suddenly I understand
why he choose her
over me.

I’ve had writer’s block for months.

Then a five-word cliché unleashed a torrent of
thoughtsfeelingswordsphrases
Emotions
Pent-up for so long.

And the best part is,
You're wrong, babe.
It’s not you, it’s me.

And it always has been.

The armrest between us
feels dangerous.
Here I sit
separate
in my chair
safe
on my own.

The tension is thick
like the rim of your glasses
thick
like the lump in my throat.

I focus on not touching you
so much so, that I forget
about the no-man's land that is
the armrest.

Our fingers touch briefly.
It's an accident.

It's electric.

And our hands do a dance,
delicate and graceful.
A ballet of avoidance.

Ceasing movement,
content in our solitude,
A sigh of relief.
Of disappointment.

Then, a sudden attack.

You lace your fingers between my own
and gently squeeze my hand.

You don't look at me.
And I am grateful.

If loving you is stepping off a cliff
I would gladly take that step
Over and over again.

Falling
           down
                     down.

Tangled limbs and broken bones.

Smiling all the while.

Eyes
closed.

Nostrils
flared.

Lips
just
barely
parted.