The strawberry milk boy. The lights are on but nobody is home kind of boy. The lost boy. There's something about his hands and how ever since that first spark you haven't stopped feeling the burning sensation on your thighs. Something about how every time you're rocking your body over his you want to whisper about loving him but never quite having the gumption. Something about knowing that it never lasts. Something about the broken glass on the kitchen floor and the way you always walk through it without shoes on. Something about knowing you'll get hurt and knowing it shouldn't be like this. Something about needing more. Something about always being the one to say sorry anyway. Something about the end.

Is a desperate wish the heart makes
In want, of correcting life's mistakes

I look under I for immortality on a trip to the local lending library,
but find a Ghazal under G two shelves in front of me
I can see this is going to be fun

On the isle of an aisle

I pick up a book clearly marked as Essex which to my eyes signifies
Extra Sensual *** uality, haha just me being clever at that I see
it's a map
book
which doesn't really interest me.

The librarian looks at me warily or it could be she wants to be wearing me
I look again under I for idolatry
I might be a god after all.

If life in its enormity is
simplified in the dictionary
and the library is a home to me
I could live there
very happily.

Wish I'd known that as a juvenile
before delinquency interfered with
maturity
I'm as sure as anyone can be
that things would have turned out
quite differently.

Hurting fingers, painful wrist,
Is there a part that I have missed?
Yep... I misspoke once again...
I guess arthritis reached my pen!

I'm November nights' sleepless eyes,
And Saturday's heavy rain,
I feel broken and I can't remember why.
A deep breath, it might ease my anguish.
Across that town,
(that I set on fire),
Is something stronger than melancholy.
I try to reach it but it's too distant.
I'm an illusion you can't deem real.
I'm only mist,
Your hand will never,
Close around mine.
You cry like a boy,
When you hear I've lost my breaths,
In 1678's winter snowstorm.
The autumn of 1857,
Seems like cracking branches,
And you and me inexistent,
Trapped in something,
We can't seem to remember.
It has no name, that phobia.
I can't breathe, I can't remember,
Where I've left my lungs.
I can't feel, I don't know,
Where I've dropped my heart.
My eyes can't trace,
The shape of your face.
You're a blurred image,
I've crafted with my own hands.
Nothing makes sense.
Maybe I'm insane.
Desperate, so desperate,
To feel, to touch an entity,
That could be bigger than life.
But I'm a breathing vacuum.
The sensation in my fingers,
Is singeing me with so much life,
It's almost unbearable.
I'm running, bolting, wavering,
Stumbling, swaying, trembling.
I'm dying, dreaming, wondering,
I'm falling in love.
I'm falling over and over and over.
But I'm only falling.
I've never known what's it like,
To get up.
I'm falling into a rift valley,
With sleepy eyes.
I'm falling again.
But this time I'm falling asleep.
I might wake up.
Someday I might.

It was about twelve hours later and the sun was on the wane
I awoke to find i'd slept the whole day through again.

nothing new
but nothing good ever comes from tardiness and sloth
both
of us know it.

I fastened to my tie pin a hint of her blue eyes
and in my heart a memory of the night and of our cries.

A man must do what a man can do
if he must then so can I,
but I'd die for a dime
to spend one more time
with the lady of my dreams.