Your hands
sliding down
my pink cheek
ticking my neck and
grabbing my hips.

I cannot help
but  to pull you
closer with each
candy coated
kiss.

Your voice is sweet
your words are absorbing
into my veins
like medicine.

My hips push against yours
wanting you closer
as I wrap you up
tight with my long
candy cane legs

You whisper in my ear
"If you knew what I wanted
to do with you"
We talk about being each others muse
but independent
enough to walk away.

And the beauty in this is that you haven't.

I invited you over for tea
and when I saw that face, that beard
I noticed how you forgot something at home this morning...
when I made you coffee, and sent you off to work.

Maybe you brought it with you when we kissed goodbye
but twelve hours later, it disappeared.
I know the girls at work didn't ****** it up
and keep it for themselves, although they would have loved to if they could.
I try to tell myself that it didn't fall away once the door closed, and I got my day started.

I think to myself "Maybe I can put it back on you, and make it appear"
but everything I say or do has no lasting affect.
I catch glimpses of it from my peripheral, blurred vision.
And then, in the darkness of night,
it is _ _ _ _.
        (gone)

Quickly twisting the dial on my watch, that control the hours,
minutes, and seconds to help the days pass by.
My time is flying right before my very eyes;
but were does that leave the rest of society?
Who would be correct? Would majority rule? Or
would I be right on time, in the place we want to meet
if I were to spin the dial on my watch
and ask you to do the same.

Your words are
pins; slowly puncturing my growing,
open heart.

Your smile
is a mask, hiding the forked instrument that sounds like
breaking glass.

Your blood was
the wine that I couldn't help but drink every night slowly growing
dependent.

Your thoughts were
carbon monoxide to my mind, which forced me to
sleep away...

I am the bobby pins and hair clips you find in corners of your room, on your dresser, or behind your bed.

I am the pictures on your wall that I made when I was once manic.

I am the crumbs you find in your bed that was once my “three or four nights a week bed” which I used as a table.

I am the cafe where we met, and kept meeting.

I am day drives to no where.

I am the Middletown train station before the movies.

I am the mint lotion that keeps the bugs away.

I am the notes I would leave you, that found their way on your wall.

I am the bandaids.

I am that strand of medium length brown hair you will find in your shower

I am that guy, from trivia at that other cafe, that I wanted us to be friends with.

I am the hands that would unlock your locked pointer finger.

I am that key on your key chain.

I am the leftover tea that is always too hot for me to drink, and is left near your bed.

I am ice cream with CHERRIES, and edamame.

I am the sheets on your bed.

I am the downing film theater when you needed to feel better.

I am New Jersey.

I am the reason Netflix recommends Independent dramas with strong female lead. I am the netflix.

I am the stain on your mattress.

I am the drool on your pillow.

I am the sugar in your cabinet above your roomates whiskey.

I am all of the groceries and dates I paid for.

I am all those pictures of me on your phone which made their way to your computer.

I am the light wash boyfriend jeans.

I am that bottle of wine that sits with all other bottles, that you see when you walk out of your room and into the kitchen, and out the door.

I am the reason you once felt content.

I am the reason the corkscrew sits on that stool.

I am the reason why your toothbrush is wet, before you use it.

I am the two red sharpie marks left on those sheets that I got us.

I am mexico. The trip to mexico that could have almost seemed doable.

I am the sent of oils which remind you of hippies.

I am the shoes left at your door, or the teavana jug of tea in the kitchen right now.

I am the fourth of July. I am that pool we never swim in. I am the projected films on the fence.

I am the talker, the thought keeper, the fighter, the writer.

I am Sensual Amber

I am UBE

I am my legs on the wall when I dry them.

I am the tiny pills on your dresser.

I am just someone your next girlfriend will be better than.

I am the bobby pins.

The world has unbelievable beauty
and you would paint the colors viewed through my cornea
and you controlled my iris and allowed me to view life in beauty.
These visions can never be taken away.

I wish I didn't feel trapped in a box as a child
fearful of becoming locked inside with dark demons haunting me
but I realized those demons were not you, but only eating you alive.
I believe this gave us peace, and only now I realize
how you deserved a second chance.

Ring ring ring, pick up
you called when I needed you, and I was still a stranger
you dedicated your time to me, and took risks
and for that I thank you, and I hope you knew
I cared too...

Your kind soul will never be forgotten
my family weeps for your entrance into the next life.
flashbacks come to me, and memories are never replaced
there was still so much more to learn from you,
but that has been left for the rest of the world to share with me.

These four inspirations have touched me differently
and left me in a matter of three hundred and sixty days
This year has been perplexing, and im unsure if I can feel again
but now I can see what is held at the upmost value in my heat
Remembrance, Time, Family, and Love.

I have big brown beautiful eyes.
These eyes see the world differently than other people.
These are my eyes.
My eyes turn blue when looking at the vast ocean
which I know carries life to thousands of creatures.
These eyes turn purple when I am feeling most confident.
I am the royal queen who holds her body to the upmost respect.
My eyes turn red with anger and lust,
when the blood is pumping and rushing through my veins.
My eyes will tun orange with hunger.
Hunger for a new beginning or something to feed my soul.
And my eyes will become yellow when the bright sunshine
wraps its arms around me, and whispers to me "it's alright."

But that green eye lays deep inside me.
That green eye is filled with jealousy, control, greed.
This green eye comes with the fear.
The fear of the large blue ocean.
Those large bodies of water that cover more of this planet than the land I walk upon.
And the green eye becomes worried about the  love of the sunshine that only wraps its arms when clouds are no longer in the way, or when the night sky doesn't take over, or when it is the right season.
This green eye comes from fear that the sun will set and I will be alone,
and the large ocean will take you far away from me with all the other creatures.
This green eye is
Poison.

Isn't it strange, how you explain to me
you don't want to be with me anymore
but after that moment, you are

kind again, sweet again, everything I
want and more... again. And how is it
that when our bodies meet, the rest of the world is
much smaller than you and I. And how could it be that we are years apart
but magnetic like no other, I can feel your pull.

How is it that you want to see me now, and I know you wont leave me
to bits all scattered across my room. And if I could explain
any of what I'm feeling right now to you I know you would be
silent

and act as if none of this matters at all
because we are "just friends now"
Friends that kiss, fight, love, scream, ****, cuddle...
but just friends.

Those words have humor in my mind. I can't even think about us being "just friends"
or maybe I can with time
but you are lying next to me half asleep
and I can't remember the last time I wrote poetry while a friend was
sleeping next to me. I can't remember the last time my fingers
were not keeping up with the thoughts in my mind, or the last
time you rolled over with the sunlight hitting your face
and you lifted your upper body, and brought your lips slowly together for a kiss.

I can't remember the last time you and I were able
to spend the weekend at my apartment
without having to leave, because of breaking glass and
nails scratching chalkboards and not your back in the heat
of the night.

And then I stop remembering everything of our past, because what I have
looking me in the eyes on this bright sunday morning
is is the warmest place I could find my heart.

She looks into the dismal reflection
of a man experiencing extreme torment,
sitting beside her.

The train stops; she passes him a note that says
"I'm sorry, I feel this creature crawling out of my heart and
into my brain, cutting the wires and re-arranging the connections."

Not a look in the eye, nor a tear to show
the agony of what was once ecstasy
of a blossoming flower in his mind.

Just moments later she walks to the back car,
greets a stranger with a kiss, and asks him
"Would you like to have dinner sometime?"

My fingers press against the keys,
as if they are as beautiful as the notes
you play at the bars during the night.

My mind whirls around all of these words,
stored in the book shelf called my thoughts.  
Trying to make connections to all of the mis-tied knots.

My eyes look disturbed with the visions of my past
that compel me to to tie, search, and press.
This is why I write. I only make connections.

They say that the manic people
are most passionate

I am most passionate about
our love, your hands, thoughts, and words.

Our love, your hands, thoughts, and words make me
m a n i c.

and then...

PANIC.
The breath is stolen away by the demons
who stick their pitchforks into my brain
repeatedly, allowing my past to ooze out
and spread like wild fire.

PANIC.
The tears that try to put out the fire but in return
send shivers up my spine. The body turns cold as if it is
d e a d.

PANIC.
Is the worry of the ashes left behind by the fire.
Who is going to clean this up so I can breath again...

or will the flame begin again before we can clean up this mess.

But slowly the individual cells begin to heal
and when combined with chemicals that are released
clean up the left over ashes even faster.

We need one day to talk
and one day to rest
and one day to clean up the mess

and after it all
we'll move along and i'll forget those chemicals are in my brain
and when you look into my eyes....

I hope you'll see me.
and not the panic in me.

I am the sand
              That falls down the glass
                                                     Drip
                                                             Drip
                                                                     Drip
        
                                                                      T i m e    w i l l    s  l  o  w  l  y    p a s s

                                                               Who will flip me over
                                                        I need to start new
                                          As I am here waiting
                            Feeling the cold air that blew

You said the last word.
I am done responding back.
That is all for now.

Poison runs through my veins
infecting my blood turning it rotten.
Rotten as the corpse that was once your living, breathing body.

This poison is contagious. Once in your blood,
there is no cure except recluse.
Or a plague

A plague of words without meaning,
a smile without a feeling, and a human without a being.
Is this who i've become?

Myself a woman going into the black cave to save the masses.
I am no longer a woman, but a wretch.
With a heart that pumps the poison.

And the men see beauty and zeal
until they have a taste of poison,
which burns the tip of their tongue.

You are a *******.
*******; back for more?
And once the plague is spread...

I leave
and move to the next victim.

This is the place where humans fill up brown cardboard boxes of "healthy food" and overlook union square. The problem is that our stomaches are NOT the the size of cardboard boxes.

Mallory Whitman sits across from me as I eat my soup I move to the counter with a mirror, peek up, see myself writing, and tell myself "I am Mallory Whitman"

I sit in crowded places in hopes of meeting someone like you again.

Every creative person I know has a phone from two- thousand-four, and is proud to show it.  Suddenly I am the outcast.

Being called a writer or poet allows me to feel like my words once ment something to someone, somewhere.  At one point in time I changed the corse of thoughts running through the mind of another living, breathing, thinking being.

Sometimes I wonder what we will continue to talk about, and if you will ever know me and love me as much as he did, or still does. I'm beginning to second guess my will to drop everything for you. My hands flutter with confusion as I try to make sense of what has happened, loosing my self doubt with every glance looking my way.

Trends really impact the lives of people who care. Food, fashion, things they find enjoyable such as music, and art. These people are not living.

If the trend is "anything goes"- then allow me to be myself.

a. She uncomfortably collects her most intimate belongings.

b. You bring the plague while coughing up the ghosts of my past.

c. Torn, split, cut in front of your very eyes, i'm asked what is torturing my skin. Each blister for every doubt.

d. A jazz musician asks me "Have you heard the new Justin Timberlake album?"

"If I were to break into my body, what would I steal?"
As if it were so easy to break into my bones, I never never broken a bone, but you ask me what is worth stealing, most would say "my heart" but without my bones, my frame would fall apart.

The beauty in retail is having sixty-five personalities in one store at one time and every one of them knows who you are- never have I been so popular.

Somehow, it's too late

There is something ticking inside of you

"tick tick tick"

I hear it, and I know you do too

Its the clock with a battery that I know will soon die

The hands will stop moving when I need them most

and what will I do with myself then?

When I am forced to leave you behind on my dresser

Pick up a new watch

Strap her on my wrist

And ask her to tell me the time.