She likes fashion and interviews. I like getting lost.
Sometimes she grabs my bulge,
as she drinks from an aluminum flask.
She told me to rhyme something with 'flask'.
I said, "Fine. In your life, you've been wearing a mask.
But I can see. And you can see. They can't see.
That you are a detached, blond doll
and your back is against the wall,
as I kiss your neck until you're dead."
She said to rhyme something with 'dead'.
I said, "Fine. You ******* in my head.
And it's quarrelsome
that they don't see that you're numb.
I'd pull on your lip, with my teeth.
Dig my hand between your legs.
Just to make you feel. Just to make you feel.
And I study your hairbrush
to see that there are too much
strands of memories from melodies
that lay dormant in ballrooms
and scented kisses
that drip of the misses
in your life and mine."
She said **** me with your words.
I refused because I'd rather watch her bloom
in my dreams than the seams of
a fiber noose that rings loose
the bell in your neck
that sounds until birds fly
and we die-
You look at me,
"Home."

When you touch,
It is withholding.
When you moan,
It is suffering.
When you smile,                                                    
It is mercy.
When you laugh,
I am placated.
When you swoon,
I am not there.
When you vibrate,
I only witness.
When you taste,
I only imagine.
When you love,
I am unknown.

When you sleep,
I do not exist.
When you wake,
I am in dream.
When you cry,
It is like beauty.
When you leave,
There is desolation.
When you arrive,
The lost are found.
When you pray,
The birds take wing.
When you dance,
The world opens.
When you break,
I am complete.

His skin
is light and glows,
beautiful like snow.

His eyes
The color of a sunny afternoon sky
with pure clouds strayed off in another land.

His freckles
scatter across his cheeks
like migrating geese.

His lips
speak of beautiful breezes
and naked trees.

His hair
is warm and smooth
and curls in the wind of his mood.

He is Autumn,
late in the season,
my favorite.

The sad look in your eyes,
breaks my heart.
I don't know what it is,
but then I might know what it is.

I don't need to know
if you are okay,
I can see it in your expression.
The limpness in your bottom lip,
the way you shoulders are slumped over,
the way your eyes glide their way
to me and then look back at the table.

That's a stupid question.
I won't ask you that.

But I need to know
if you will be okay.

When?
I don't care when.
The sooner the better though.
But if you feel like
you will be okay,
that you can see the light
at the end of the tunnel
and find your way
out of the mess,
then that's all that I need to know.

I just want to know,
Will you be okay?

Gosh, I love you.

I talk about you often.
I think about you constantly.
I gaze at the only picture I have left of you
that hasn't been burned, torn, trashed, or deleted.

I talk about how much of a **** you were to me.
I think about how you called me a lesbian and unattractive everytime I look at my hair.
I gaze at the picture of us as little kids, sitting together on your porch swing.
I think about how you're different from those days.
And I wonder about the things we might do if we ever see each other again.

Somehow after eight years, I'm still horribly in love with you.


It is probably a good thing that I can't see you anymore.

Red
the color of passion.
Love and Beauty.
Hate and Bloodshed.

Do you remember the red dress?
The one I wore the last day I saw you.

With dusty wings
and awkward flight
Your tiny buffalo body
bounces on the
delicate glass surface.
An exaggerated shadow
announces your plight.
Is it the beauty of
the butterfly
that spurs you.
Why so frustrated;
so persistent?
Do you know of emotion?
Maybe you do,
and it is your own
dark turmoil
that draws you to the
glass skirted flame.