I was sitting at the computer
trying to think of a way
to describe a woman's
*** as anything other
than a woman's ***
and there were
marlboro black
cigarettes on my
creaking desk
and I had a fifth
of whiskey on the
windowsill and
I rubbed my forehead
and thought of fruits--
apples and oranges--
no, no that's overdone
and I thought of animals--
elephants and horses--
but, again, no, I'd
come across as one of
those sick ******* that
go to the zoo in  
stained trench coats
and rub themselves against
the chain link
and Eve would walk in
beautiful girl with short
hair and a sharp mind
she'd ask what I was
writing about and
I'd say women
but the women were
never her, she pointed out
and I'd say I don't want to
jinx this, what we have,
you know? and she'd say okay,
okay

I'd get lit up every evening and
I'd text other women
I'd tell them about the shapes
of their ***** and the sizes
of their brains and they'd
usually say uh huh yeah
but I was fishing, always
fishing for that compliment
that sliver of hope, that
unsatisfied wife
when you're trying to be
Bukowski you'll throw
yourself under the bus
again
and
again
for what?
a story, trivial and base,
and that good woman,
that best woman, that Eve,
one day while making breakfast
she'll say to the eggs in the skillet
I can't take this **** anymore
and you'll say so don't
and she'll say fine
and she'll walk out the front door
wearing your t-shirt
you'll feel free for a week
and alone for two years.

Dear Talia,


I found you.

Have you ever lain in your bed, after a night of restlessness and tears that tessellate on your face as you dream of a new place where crying isn't a thing, and where beautiful girls in dark dresses and black Keds are?

Have you ever looked at the stars and say to yourself, "Wow, some of these are dead, but the person I could love, and who could love me, may be looking at them and is still alive?"

When in our darkest places, when the hurt can't escape our bodies, when we think we'll never recover, have you ever thought of a person that you don't know yet, but you know that they're part of the answer? I think you're the person I've been thinking about.

Do you want to be my Alexa Chung?

Do you want to be the soft song in my room, as we slow dance on a carpet covered in removed clothes and removed fear?

Can I be the one to show you how you could save lives with your presence and that your presence is a present?

Can I be yours?

I want to wipe off the lipstick on your lips with my lips. I want to paint my face with your mauve and laugh about it in bed, over a bowl of ice cream and teeth showing as we smile. You're a nice dream. You're the only dream I have right now.

If I die, I want you to know that you are one the most beautiful people I've ever encountered.

"I'm so ****** whenever it comes to this final," were my first eloquent words to you as we trudged out of Cerbone's, and pushed double doors that opened the opportunity of ourselves to one another.

When I think about it, I could have said something a little less Sid Vicious-esque than, "I'm so ****** whenever it comes to this final," but you can be my Nancy Spungen, sans stabbing you in the stomach. I'd rather you be my Alexa Chung, though. Plus, Nancy Spungen was kind of *****, inside and out, and you're cleaner than a rain-kissed afternoon.  

Is this weird? I'm writing a letter to someone that I spent five and a half hours with in a cafe. Then again, I think it may be warranted.

We left his classroom and avoided bumping into each other until we were at The Daily Grind. You were beside me, attached to my hip, or was I attached to yours? Your hair is dark and has a quasi-bronze streak in one part. It's unique, like parental guidance. I think your eyes could break hearts and fix spider-webbed windshields after a collision with, "Are you okay," and, "I'm fine; I'm not going anywhere."

I find it unusual that whenever I was walking with you, that I felt calm. I haven't felt that way in a long time, when walking with someone. Then again, I've only been walking with my shadow, as of late. Usually, my nerves seep out of my pores and my hair spins in my scalp, as I breathe heavily and think about long ways to say goodbye and quick ways to die. But with you, the ocean softens the shore inside.  

Entering through the weathered door of The Daily Grind, you were still there. Ryan was there, but he doesn't know who I am. To be fair, no one really knows me. It's mutual, but I only know of him because of his questionable but interesting opinions. Actually, his opinions aren't that interesting, I just think his confidence is interesting. He reminds me of a bee stinging someone and confidently allowing the lower half of his body to be ripped out, as he bleeds out with insides hanging like cooked spaghetti noodles, with wings sputtering, as he talks about Bad Faith, with a smile on his face. Wow, that was a run-on sentence. That was the type of run-on sentence you could lose faith over.

I'm afraid that you may think that the way I perceive the world is weird. It's okay, though. I think I annoy my friends whenever I tell them about my problems, so I don't want to do that to you. I only tell them about a quarter of my problems, but you're the type of person I could tell everything to. It's not their faults, though. They have their own issues and lives to handle, as do you. I'd hate to be the cut in your mouth.

You ordered a ***** chai, I believe it's called. You're a regular. I'm only a regular to lonely nights. People know you and love you. I can see why, and I'm glad they do. You're the type of person that inspires books and to be yours would to be everything.

I ordered a Sierra Mist, because I'm about as cool as a pyromaniac's paradise. I like your eyebrows and your voice. We swept each other to a table by the window.

Your eyes are green. Your hair is black. And after meeting you, there's no turning back.

We were supposed to study, but I didn't come there to learn about Sartre. Existentialism did come into play as I tried to figure out if you could add purpose to my life. You did.

I think you were a little surprised that I didn't want to study, and I think you were even more surprised when I wanted to talk about you.

My God, Talia, I don't think you're aware of how beautiful you are.

We spoke for five hours and thirty minutes. I thought it'd only last half an hour. We bled ideas, stories, and questions. You told me the story about yourself. That was my favorite story.

After these five and a half hours, I had to go to therapy. You said it was four. This was the second or third time you checked your phone in almost six hours; I was flattered that I had your attention. The first time, out of probable nervousness, and the second time whenever your friend came in to talk to you.

I wanted to say so much more to you, but I bit my lip so I wouldn't and so my jaw wouldn't drop.

When you said it was four, I was sad. I didn't want to leave you, or for you to leave me.

Do blood and thoughts hold a race whenever we're afraid of losing someone?

We walked out of the cafe, and found the sidewalk. As we walked, I was wondering what was next. I didn't know what you'd think of my having a therapist. I'm not crazy, just scared.

I should have held your hand.

When we arrived to our destination, the lair, I told you that I had a therapist and an appointment. I asked you if you wanted to sit with me in the lobby. You said yes. I felt the words, "Thank you."

I don't think the elevator we stood in was big enough for our hearts, and I'd like to think that love seat was our sanctuary. You looked at me and understood, as we talked about our childhoods, our mothers, my father, and our worlds.

I wanted to kiss eternity into you.

My therapist came out, and I said bye. I got up, quickly. I would have said goodbye slower, but my heart was too fast. I'm supposed to see you tomorrow, so I can work on my goodbye.

If I die, I want you to know that you've given me the greatest six hours I could have asked for.

You deserve to be happy and I hope that you are, no matter with who. Despite all of that, I feel like you and I are supposed to happen.

I wrote a poem whenever I got home:

Move your hands with mine.
You're the current of the ocean.
I whisper your name, and I'm not afraid.
You are my emotion.

It's you, isn't it?


I want to be yours,

Josh

I walk around touching.
I walk around touching objects
-Hanging or resting-
That carry shards of our
History in their origin.
My hands remember
The warmth of your back
Against my palm.
Sun lotion between my fingers,  
Denmark. Summer.
You tasted like xcide and your  
Mother's Marlboro Light.
Laughed.
Kissed me;
Soft but hard. Soul to my soul.
We were so completely happy.

This quill pen you made me
To inspire my words.
Draw us with your poetry.
To write about you drawing
A picture of me writing
About you.
Taking in; transferring.
I've written you
Volumes.
Volumes.

Picture.
I touch and smile.
Trace your face with
My fingers, your
Mouth. My God, your
Mouth...
You let me touch your
Teeth when you smiled.
I cried then, even during the
Good years.

I take it in. Dig deeper in memories
To strain my soul, and tattoo... and
Claim these moments as
Mine forever; graven into
The marble tablets of
My mourning mind.
Feeling the farewell with
My every fibre
And gaping, face soaking wet,
At the Heavens in a
Silent scream of
**** You God! She's gone!
GONE! FUUUUUUUCK!

Like some kind of miner or
****** of some sorts
Craving pain and beauty in
Equal handfulls,
Tearing and ripping
At the remains of something
That just days ago
Wasn't dead.

She and I exchanged disdainful glances
across the parking lot. The verbally brash
invitation she gave me at 10:30 two nights
earlier from a low-riding car resounded
in my brain. She wanted our graduating class
to get together and sit awkwardly around
a campfire while a few reminisced
of homeroom and half days back in high
school. And as the last few embers glowed
like residence halls, she would clear
her throat and bash college. She’d denounce
the curriculum, professors, and parking spaces
then praise the days of hurrying through carpeted
hallways and freshmen traffic. To see our classmates
laughing with hands outstretched to the flames
would bring a smile to her summer-chapped lips.
But we’re no longer classmates.
We’re just seventeen people trying to live our lives
outside the confines of Galeton High School. Sure,
we’ll bite our tongues and fake smiles every now
and then, but we’ll never be more than superficial.

High on Cateye and Ghost Sight,
I stumbled through the streets
of Salida del Sol beneath
the watchful eye of Father Elijah.

The roulette spinner cobblestones
clicked as my feet dragged
past the courtyard.

Like an effigy, the homemade martini
between my fingers burned
my gin-soaked lungs.

Sweat and vermouth settled
in the circuits of my collar
as I gasped for relief.

Hologram gamblers tossed golden
casino chips in dried fountains
as they strolled past me and through
the Sierra Madre's gates.

I'm studying my surroundings
because I don't want to throw a white
sheet over reality and lie about
what's underneath.

I'm fighting the urge to rhyme
because I don't want to have to mix
and wrench words to speak my mind.

I'm suppressing fits of profound speech
because I don't want to shift diction
to sound older or wiser than I am.

I set a table up outside
because I don't want to write inside
my head.

I'm tracing leaves, watching cars pass,
and sipping tea because I don't want
to guess.

Las Vegas hit me like a
Jab on the jaw
Rome was an adventure

But I always felt more a
Stranger than
Here, where

Every face |even those of
Smitten tourists|
Carry the features of

"Friend". **** you, London.
Your every borough makes me
As warm as the arms

Of an ex you wish
Wasn't
One.