My eyes move over the broad hills
and feeding cows with little interest
what flows through me
is a positive emotional experience
not easy to put in words but
if i could
perhaps it is
the space
to clear
your mind.

Or have you tucked yourself away in a ranch house,
wireless to the Network?
Are you craving
an existence far-fetched from reality?

The manners, the sobriety, my shoes
even my smile
is a prosperous presentation.

Do you believe
that there are individuals ******
to deserve the bottom?
Do you think that some of them
are the lucky ones
and that
maybe you
aren't?

And then you crack open a tiny conch-shell size of the universe
and give your worries up to God,
who is now your best friend with the bright idea
that you too have power beyond measure.

I want to tell you I could love you.
I could make you happy.
I could make you fall apart on the
bedroom floor,
helplessly and desperately proclaiming
that our love was more
than the nights of
raised arms and oceans of threatening depths.

But fifteen is an age when all of this
is just a dream,
a cliff where the jump is even more
dangerous than everyone says it to be.
Fifteen is the age when I believe,
that my hands have grown rough enough
to take yours
and maturity and age
have always been our similarity.
But fifteen is just another name for
"You're too young."

I cannot promise you that a wedding ring
would worth more than
the freedom to love the women
of taller heights and wider hips
for their lipstick is much darker
than the lip balm I use to
smoothen the dried skin.

For I do not know what it is like
to slide the glass between my fingers
and to taste the golden bubbles
freeze my teeth.

I do not know how to light a cigarette
or how to inhale the scent and death of rebellion.
I do not know how to let the ashes fall
unto the tray without burning my skin
and dirtying my nails.

I do not know how to make you want me,
how to dress and turn my curves
into mountains you wish to explore.
I do not know how to turn my tongue
into a weapon much deadlier
than the wind.
I do not know how to make you
feel beautiful.

So with all of the worlds streets, corners and
dimly lit bars,
I am nothing but a little pigtailed girl
with a lollipop in one hand and a poorly written
love note in the other.
And there you are,
as tall and as handsome as I've always seen
you as
with no time to look down,
only straight ahead.

But I guess, thats okay.
The heels would never have fit me anyway.

Just a while more, and you won't be here
I will try to find you, but you won't be near

People like you, so pure, so kind
People like you are never easy to find

You may call me crazy, but I want you to know
Dearth of you, and I will be dull and low

Days will be an endless struggle to survive
No more thoughts in my mind will thrive

I will eagerly wait to be enlightened by you
I will miss you so, I hope you feel the same about me too

It's not about you,
not anymore.
It's about how
I feel like a stranger
lying next to you,
on your futon on the floor
of your best friend's loft.
It's about how you say,
"No,
I cannot kiss you right now,
for my lips are dry."
It's about how
when the buildings
around us start collapsing,
you run to safety,
and forget that I'm
still asleep on the couch
It's about how
when my hair is done,
and pulled slightly to the side,
you say, "But it looks better,
the other way."
It's not about you,
or the way you walk
with confidence and charm,
or how I could gaze in your eyes,
for infinity.

It's about how
I cry when I watch
romantic French dramas,
and how I love
collecting withered flowers,
in empty alcohol bottles
It's about all the things,
you've never thought to ask
and all the days,
you've ignored the way
I have longed for you.
No,
it will never be about you,
not anymore.
This time,
it's about me.

we spent all our time
curled up like cats
in his bed
with a broken mattress.
this is home.