the fragility which you encompass is much too rough for my black and blue hands to grasp.

I've spent too many years trying to change the color of these streetlights to match that of my whimsy,
and I'd just as soon remain alone than to have you right here with me.

When an unseen breeze pushes these leaves to dance as shadows down my street,
I can't help from thinking:
This is beauty.

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Gravity with its heavy hand would have something to say about the way you stand.
Get out while you're still upright.
Get out while you still can.

Oh ****.
Oh no.
I've slipped into a slippery dance with all of the things I've always feared, and all of the things I'll never know,
and I can't tell anymore if it's joy or sadness that causes all these tears,
but it hardly makes a difference, so long as I can still feel this:
a precious presence in the bones;
a song sung by the body that makes me feel not so alone.

I'd kiss you on the forehead.
I'll kiss both of your eyes.
Remembering to feel alive, at least until we one day die.

If I could manipulate time, then I'd put us both in the same instant,
to breath shared air,
if only for a minute.

Thin walls.
Ear plugs.
Windows.

Whatever, do what you gotta.

Shut it out or let it in.
Bring on the feast:
Let the games begin.

I wonder how many people have ever felt like this before;
Cowering with the knowledge that there's a rhinoceros on the otherside of their door.

She says I'm just a little too lonely for her.
She says she can't be bothered by a lone ivory horn.

But I was born to wallow,
in a puddle that the better beasts know to avoid.
I was born to swallow mud and cough up fertilized bone;
to choke on marrow while distant gardens grow.

She says my spine can't seem to find the right way to write itself.
I told her she's wrong.

I told her that I can write like a mad man,
that I can grip words and twist them with burning fists that punch holes through preconceived notions like some sort of metaphoric hadouken.

She says it's too vague,
that I've been swept up in the plague of Easter-eggs and internet memes -
that my bad posture and pessimistic mentality are just a reflection of how broken things really are.
Basically, that I'm part of the Problem.

She says that I'm ******* in the wind in a river that's flowing downstream;
That I'll never be able to reconcile the difference between real life and just dreams.
That I'm swimming in ten different types of reality and the only one that should matter to me is the one I can't seem to see.

She says a lot of things,
but I've had it.
From here on out,
I'm not listening.

Went to bed and dreamed of getting my *** kicked by the Queen of Earthquakes.
Six hours later and I'm waking up with a headache.
Hid from the sun beneath sweaty sheets.
The only thing that gets cold here is the space in our chest.

Road the bus with a load of automatons withered with rust.
Scanning the seats with dead-beat eyes.
Hey, would you mind if we traded places?
I like the window seat best.

Paperclip trebuchets wage war in front of ignored spreadsheets.
Just another day in paradise,
but now I think I feel a stirring between my legs.
Here we sit waiting on a disaster to speed up our slow demise.

But all that aside, the thing is that when I stare into her eyes I can feel my feet sliding -
Carrying me toward the tittles in the middle with a gliding force that can't be avoided.

i think i might like her a little.