I can hear my voice:
it crackles like
burning
paper.

The heavy
The painful
The weight
Tugging and pulling.
Ripping and tearing.
Something is wrong.

The feeling of *Guilt

I look past your face—
traveling deeper inside
through your consciousness
passing the galaxies in your eyes
farther beyond—
abstract psychedelic dimensions
of understanding in your brain
surpassing—
our comprehension
of time,
words
& the divine
as I continue traveling
to the vast, farthest
parts
of you
where there is
just a weightless
Nirvana of nothing…

Here, there’s just a void,
devoid of any life,
or, remnants of
sound.


There is
complete, nothing.

There is more copacetic bliss here
than any imaginary world,
or ***** fantasy
we’ve created.

They are strangers now, separated by their worlds and walls.
There is no chemistry, no spark, nothing special.
They are simply strangers, sharing a couch.

One is autumn, one is spring;
one likes talking, and the other? Listening.

If walls could talk, they’d weave a tale so tragic.

In the beginning, he was sun, and she was moon.
At the ending, she was running, but he was leaving.

In the beginning, there are many things.
There is music, and laughter, and broken strings.
They have cooperation, and commitment, and promises.
Her mom gives them glasses, his mom gives them dishes.
She has her charcoals, he has his guitar.

At the ending, close to the ending-
There is his guitar, her laughter, they’ve broken things.
And that is all that is left.

Promises and glasses, dishes and hearts.
A year of trying and losing is written on the walls;
the wallpaper- peeling, the curtains- ripping.

He clears his throat, she stills- hoping.
“I’m sorry,” she hears, and it’s okay.
“I’m sorry,” she hears, “that it’s ended this way.”

I’m sorry, she hears. I’m sorry, that it’s ended this way.
I’m sorry, she hears. That it’s ended this way.

“It’s ended this way?”
“I’m ending it this way.”

Fitting, isn't always what is craved.

I know you're right
and it all makes sense.
         I drink in your personality
and douse it with a splash of mine.
         They mix together perfectly.
Making a sweet concoction
like a glass of fine wine.

But there will always
be a part of me
dying for something
to clash.
Danger intrigues me,
and pulls me in.
           We don't slosh together
as expected;
           I am excited by the disturbance
of ingredients.
           My heart races thinking
of this harsh, breathtaking drink.
                         *****, if you will.

The wine is so convenient
and less risky.
The proper choice, and we all know it.
                          (I need this. But how do I know if it's worth it?)

This doesn't stop the craving inside me,
desperate -- for a hard drink.
                          *(Constantly in the back of my mind. Gravitating me back to my old ways.)

Two boys
and girls
unclothed each other
simply at a picnic
flush with wine
alongside
sun-flecked trees.

The girls,
easy as the
forest round,
burned,
delicious,
as the boys
eager and nervous
in unequal measure
partly gave up
concealing
their joys
at forgetting
or remembering
in flickers
their bare bodies.

It went on
over nettles
and half-hours
and clambered
trees and
photos taken
almost formally
(on film,
of course).

And boyish lust,
at first sinuous,
a darting tongue,
began to
soften against,
for instance,
the sheer,
unthinkable
texture
of the two
girls carved
now backward
over the bough
of a storm-felled elm.

And there
in the embers
of evening
they learned
to thrill originally
at the vast,
gorgeous
and astonishing
irrelevance
of what
might happen next.