we can sit on the bonnet of the car
wearing our muddy converse
blasting indie rock through the radio
on a pleasant summer evening
watching the willow tree hanging upon the streams of water
while you dig for the last french fry from the paper bag
and while i gaze at your sheer beauty

but for now it's a figment of my imagination
hoping maybe
you dream of this
too

i'll love you till you call the cops on me.
-lorde, writer in the dark

my adolescence was meant to be viewed through
orange tones and heavily grained film

“Dear Uncle David, I want to thank you again, and Wallis, for having me at your home in the Bois de Boulogne. It’s a rare thing that fate should allow a former king and a king-in-waiting to meet. To tell the truth, it opened my eyes to a few things. To the nature of kingship… the nature of love… and all the difficulties that go both… I’m sure you know the family would have preferred me not to visit you. Afraid, perhaps, I might recognize myself in you, sympathize with you. Well, let me confess that I do recognize myself in you. Your progressiveness and flair. Your individuality and imagination. What a king you would have made in a kinder world. What a king we were denied. It makes me so sad to see you living in exile, when all you did was take a stand for principle, and love one woman completely. You were cruelly denied your right to reign alongside the woman that you wanted by your side. But I give you my word I will not be denied what you have been denied.  The Crown is not a static thing resting on one head. It is moving. Alive. Divine. The changing face of changing times. And if, God willing, it has been ordained that I should wear it… then I shall do so on my own terms… and hopefully, make you proud.” - Prince Charles

note to self
don't ever let someone 'fix' my poems
for i'm afraid they'll take away the emotion
from my handpicked words
words that reflect who i am
it may seem like i'm not open to criticism
but they don't feel the same way i do

I’ve let my finger nails grow,
A direct consequence of my unconscious burdens;
Does the weatherman know, Whether
the solstice will reign in full glory,
Or do I ponder this with my own leather-tanned skin, and unshaven neck,
If my peeling shoulders will feel the curt embrace of an August rainfall.

Grass strands braided into your blonde hair;
Overtures of a silent sunrise emanate from your pores.
Perhaps this is us? Where—
Heathens roam Victorian streets in
Elegiac fashion.
Rivers and
Streams form at the corners of my eyes now.

my love for you has no limits
boundless like the ocean
of which its rivers of adoration
flow through me
like electricity

Somethings I’m going to keep to myself
Like my secret Instagram crush

The cowboy’s sitar is a warmer, darker beige, which sits atop a birch trunk.
Handsome are his lovers; their skin the colour of his beloved instrument.
Even in despair he has someone in his bed,

Consoling his loneliest fears in platonic holds.
O, the merry days of young love,
Wringing in the newly weds,
Bringing home the bacon.
Only the cowboy thought to forge his own path.
You see,
Seclusion was a scare for the young buck,

Sitting alone under a prejudiced sky.
In love he set out for his calling;
Thinking of whom—and for who—he could make a fine husband.
Alas, amidst these broken records he calls his utopian visions,
Returns he, to his lover atop his birch trunk.

Pervasive yet persuasive,
As I inhale the cigarette smoke,
Ready to abandon my principles, I—
“Turn towards the door; party’s over.”
Yellow cabs captured in my sepia/****** lens;

Gritting my teeth, blood rushes to my jaw.
It always happens, and I announce that I’m drunk.
Reassure me; tell me I’m not a nuisance.
Let me hold your hand, please.

Surveilled fluorescence at my temples,
Pulse. Pulse. Pulse.
This desolate white—arches forming at my cuticles,
Four dimensional, the Nile running through my body.
Sediment washes into silence;

grit settles in the gaps of my teeth, my eyelashes blacken.
Gummy cuts and chlorine burns.
Rubbery knuckles and the smell of gasoline.
Metal in my ear, ringing—

Sometimes I avoid my own reflection;
How ironic for someone so vain?
This disillusioned caricature of me
Lives a life so removed from myself—
Thriving across the pond, In heteronormative fantasies,
Knowing that he too deserves love.
I know I deserve this love too,
But I hide from the mirror.
“To be free is to be handsome.”

Baby ginger, an ex sighting,
and an “I miss you”;
will I ever win;
maybe I already have

Could we try it
Again, pouring Florida Water;
Reaping ingrown signals,
Mundane and silky,
Eyelid grey;
Natural in this state