Hey there boy,
Funny seeing you again,
Someone who was much more than a simple friend.

You filled my life with joy and regret,
But now the question I have is..

Do you miss it?

Rubbing your hands through my hair, whispering things in my ear?

Do you miss it?

Kissing my lips until I was blushing scarlet, promising we'd last forever?

I don’t.

Are you jealous boy?
How I’ve blossomed without you,
Have you realised that you held me back?

I have.

I thank you for causing the pain inside my heart,
The immovable weight,
Because each time it hits me,
I’m reminded of how much I have grown,

*Without your help.

some nights the nastier bits of myself crawl up from my throat and sit on my tongue & whiskey isn't strong enough to wash them down

I knew a simple soldier boy
Who grinned at life in empty joy,
Slept soundly through the lonesome dark,
And whistled early with the lark.

In winter trenches, cowed and glum,
With crumps and lice and lack of ***,
He put a bullet through his brain.
No one spoke of him again.

You smug-faced crowds with kindling eye
Who cheer when soldier lads march by,
Sneak home and pray you'll never know
The hell where youth and laughter go.

Have you ever held your hand still
Just above a river’s passing water
Liquid rushing by reaching for your skin
Jumping up; eager to commune with you
Beckoning you to dip a finger in

I am bad at flirting…like…really bad
and
I **** at being subtle.
Your blog is quality and so is mine (on good days, anyways).
I may not be that pretty, but I am a good person.
                                        I won’t ******* over.
And I will make you tea at 2 a.m. and not judge your tastes in music
(out loud).
We can watch Spirited Away or Howl’s Moving Castle or Nausica
and tumble and have *** and wear **** shades.
I will make you breakfast and vegetarian dishes
on Meatless Monday.
We can read Bukowski on swing sets, smoke cigarettes, and drink whiskey, stumble behind bushes and kiss until my lips hurt.
We can have coffee in some place in Asheville and sit really close together and make fun of black-keys hipsters
(even though I really like the Black Keys).
You will probably have to listen to lots of Hole and Rising Appalachia
and read my poetry, but I will always
read your work when you hand it to me.
And probably buy you nice things.
Like a flask with some quote you like on it. Or your favorite pack of cigs with something cute like, ‘let’s have *** in that bathroom’
written on it.
Or a nice sweater because…sweaters are nice and my blow jobs are of legend.
I may not know you that well, but I’d like to.
And I think you would like to get to know me
because I’m pretty rad.
And I look nice in green and dark navy blue,
and my hair looks pretty in the sunlight.  
I’m saying all this because I’m lonely and people with good tastes in music are rare.

that
               --should you leave the world for a while
there are people who remember the smell
of your clothes
of your skin after being in the sun
your hair after the rain
that there are people who know your favorite color
your favorite author
who would bring you flowers
in mason jars
{irises and ivy and daffodils and gardenias and honeysuckle and sage}
to cheer you when spring rain
carries away your joy
that there are people who know your favorite sound
that there are people who remember what your eyes look like
in the sun
or care about mundane tales from your childhood
like how you got a scar on your palm
or why you’re afraid of to-go boxes and the wind
that there are people who would make you
rhubarb jam
or oolong or english breakfast in early morning hours
who would read your poetry
or make you earrings
or hold your hand when the wind blows too hard
and empty stomachs cry too loud

and sometimes it’s nice to have friends
who think you are pretty
and think of you when they smell lavender
instead of wondering