It's 1 in the morning and I'm thinking about
all the possibilities of someday,
and what you would say to me right now
if you were lying next to me.
Confidently unsure, probably high,
listening to crickets outside,
tangleing your legs with mine,
You. Philosophy major. Addicted to coffee. Studying film,
but you can't even sit still
for ten to fifteen minutes
and that's too bad because
I want to talk to you for much,
much longer than that.

"God, I love you," He turned away. "It's hard to get that close to someone."
Then, he let her go, as one does. Because Life doesn't tell you to simper and sigh in the face of death,
Life is a phone call that you wait to receive.
It curls your bones with anxiety,
it is the breath your body needs as you break the surface. It is sweet windy spring. Cold milk. Firecrackers. Synthesizers. Loving until love becomes pain and turns back to love again.

Is it getting hot in here?
or is it the breath of summer
sliding down the walls like
the sweat dripping off
of
you.
Just the peek of skin under cheeky
jean shorts, worn with the sway
of someone who may know more
about holding a body than a pen.
Just a preoccupied tongue,
rolling cinnamon candy in
a salsa circle,
sticky teeth
******* clean a
hot asphalt moment between
you and June,
that girl who makes do with your
pale legs and turns them into
firewood.

A yellow, Klimt-colored aura,
knuckles brushing,
the scent of old money. Vaguely
I get a feeling that I'll remember you
for all of the rest of my life.

My mother thinks I'm not myself with her anymore (because I'm not, and how could I be?). I don't miss the child who danced in department stores, caught caramels from July 4th floats. I am not her, and she is not me. Her sparkling smile has lapsed away, eroded into the sexiness I attempt to allude now. As if being fuckable was something more enriching. At twenty, I'm smaller than I ever was before. Weaker, even, because of my smallness. I've been gripping onto the edge of the daily routine, and felt my palms ache at the attempt. My hands burn, rope cuts skin. I'm forgetting what's within now. A certain strength I could muster at one time has all but left me with a wet kiss on the cheek. Life sneers Try again later, sweet heart. Test your luck one more time...

She is a wet newspaper that you can't just leave on the sidewalk, because the headline caught your attention.
I wish this bottle could talk, too. I wish it could tell your secrets.
It's over and over again, the same dark haired man who loves good music,
straight smiling and gentle expressions,
I dip my hand in, smooth as a bowl of marbles.
I love the feeling of the eyes on me, so I make a disgusted face.

The muse is a vassal,
she pours herself out with a smile
when all she wants is to take herself back
and pull the words, the inspiration she has procured
with her body back out of those artists' mouths.
the muse is an empty shell ,
rocked and torn, picked up and down,
thrown on the canvas by hasty hands,
sparks painted into her eyes.
The muse desires to be seen and understood
for more than what she has been used for.