There will come a day where instead of lovers chasing cars,
people with love will be climbing comets.
And where the light of the stars is not enough
to make the night full--where no limit is far past the moon.

A day will come when somebody adds a new letter to the alphabet.
And where loving is no longer harder than
having no love at all.
And the only way for the world to change is if
the day and the night,
the sun and the moon,
the good and the evil,
the right and the wrong,
the love and the hate, and
everything else: both looked and recognized each other.

There will come a day where rain is soft like
the falling of flower pedals.
The day will come where all light is vanished, and
with the light of candles it will be the wavering wind who will decide
to put out its flames.

And maybe that day is here, now, right here--finding it was never
that easy.

Like young lovers—where too much talking shortens the romance
and where it too was never worth the risk to say goodbye.
The fire no longer burns the same but I still want to
hear what your eyes scream.

And my problem is that loneliness and I are best friends;
when I go outside it is with
the birds,
the clouds,
the chalk within this pavement
where I have my own cheap conversations.

We can pass through the days like a series of jump-cuts
and nothing between us changes,
and we lay together as victims of this dark road,
listening to the trickling of rainfall down our windows
coming into our world where we no longer live in.

I trace the memories kept behind like fingerprints.
The love we had is now crushed and swept away by a wave of  
our indolence and insanity.
I go back to the time of sadness,
Because it was the sadness of her eyes the made me
happy
happy
happy
and somewhat sane…

All I have left are the mental photographs of what happened
and of wanting what could have been. I leave now with all the
things that I traced—things that can never be erased
like fingerprints that never  
ever had changed.
I sit here alone in this disease-ridden couch, with my
disease-ridden hope. And I will memorize your eyes,
blinking to the rhythm of you heartbeat, dancing in a starlit daydream—as  
I am wishing of a memory where you gave me  
everything you had
and where I offered you the pieces that were left
of me.

I kept all memories of you in a heart-shaped box,
where it is slowly crumbling as time goes by.
I kept all your secrets,
your playbook,
your cards,
your broken cassettes and cigarettes
our now and always,
your sad eyes and the happiness you had
and which made me smile again.

So maybe fingerprints and memories share a common thing. They say  
that “good things happen to those who wait”, I’d say keep on waiting,
*******, I have been waiting, and still all I’ve traced is  
the measurements of my  
indolence and insanity. So yeah, keep on waiting.

little dark girl with
kind eyes
when it comes time to
use the knife
I won't flinch and
i won't blame
you,
as I drive along the shore alone
as the palms wave,
the ugly heavy palms,
as the living does not arrive
as the dead do not leave,
i won't blame you,
instead
i will remember the kisses
our lips raw with love
and how you gave me
everything you had
and how I
offered you what was left of
me,
and I will remember your small room
the feel of you
the light in the window
your records
your books
our morning coffee
our noons our nights
our bodies spilled together
sleeping
the tiny flowing currents
immediate and forever
your leg my leg
your arm my arm
your smile and the warmth
of you
who made me laugh
again.
little dark girl with kind eyes
you have no
knife. the knife is
mine and i won't use it
yet.

I can write the saddest poem of all tonight.

Write, for instance: "The night is full of stars,
and the stars, blue, shiver in the distance."

The night wind whirls in the sky and sings.

I can write the saddest poem of all tonight.
I loved her, and sometimes she loved me too.

On nights like this, I held her in my arms.
I kissed her so many times under the infinite sky.

She loved me, sometimes I loved her.
How could I not have loved her large, still eyes?

I can write the saddest poem of all tonight.
To think I don't have her. To feel that I've lost her.

To hear the immense night, more immense without her.
And the poem falls to the soul as dew to grass.

What does it matter that my love couldn't keep her.
The night is full of stars and she is not with me.

That's all. Far away, someone sings. Far away.
My soul is lost without her.

As if to bring her near, my eyes search for her.
My heart searches for her and she is not with me.

The same night that whitens the same trees.
We, we who were, we are the same no longer.

I no longer love her, true, but how much I loved her.
My voice searched the wind to touch her ear.

Someone else's. She will be someone else's. As she once
belonged to my kisses.
Her voice, her light body. Her infinite eyes.

I no longer love her, true, but perhaps I love her.
Love is so short and oblivion so long.

Because on nights like this I held her in my arms,
my soul is lost without her.

Although this may be the last pain she causes me,
and this may be the last poem I write for her.

It is not just the way that you move, much more or less the way in which you  
dress. The caliber of your presentation: it has no scope, no measurable standpoints.—
For you are a poem with feet, and at one point God called you a star.  

But you are a song, who is gently prancing melodies that cure my maladies. And  
I want no one else to hear you when you sing. Because I want to be the only one
who listens…listening until the day my bones run dry and no flesh, no carcass  
is left of me. And vultures shall feast upon my cruel skin, shivering in the dark rays  
of night, leaning over the crevices of my teeth. My teeth, the size of piano keys.

You stick to me, and **** the life out of me like a silky, black ******* leech. And I  
love you too much, and you, perhaps too little. Giving you each and every inch of my purple heart; still not being enough. And still when you speak: it is with outstanding
purpose and resolve. You spoke of love, even when love did not exist. As all  
eyes look towards you, and all ears lend their time to you too. As if you were a
magnet that connects two distinguishing charges: grace and charm.

Your wicked ways will be what I will die falling in love with. For every time I  
breathe slowly, and calmly, and every step I take, it is with confidence. I am not
a broken machine, living in this mechanical planet:  

I will eternally, faithfully, and all of me will rise to you whenever you shall
move
dress
sing
**** me off
speak…or…  
whenever you shall too love me, just enough.