i met my seventh lover
seven months and
seven days
ago.
seven years
will pass
before his scent
sheds from my
skin
and seven lives
will have been lived
before i love
again.

Who* did you trade me for?
     (Yet you were never quite mine.)
What spurred you to do this?
     (As you stepped across the line.)
Where are you know?
     (Are we thinking the same thing.)
When will you come back?
     (Your absence brings a hollow sting.)

And I would trade these past four questions,
for the answer to but one:
Why did you leave me?
Why did you run?

I've never truly believed in love.
Playing Coldplay in the mountains above,
An inch from the edge of the atmosphere,
you told me not to give my tears,
you told me not to cry.
"It's weak," you said, drilled it into my head.
I did something I believed I never could,
You might not know, but you changed me for good.

I've never truly believed in love,
The mountain air, or lack thereof.
I tried not to fall as best as I could,
Did everything a blind girl should,
But I stumbled, and I tripped,
I fumbled, and I flipped,
Not off the mountain that we were part of,
but into the abyss that one calls 'love.'
At the edge of insanity, where we once stood,
You might not know, but you changed me for good.

But does 'for good' mean 'for better,'
or 'for good' as in 'forever?'
I tried to find out as best as I could,
but all we'll ever know is that you changed me for good.

Fuzzy eyes to forget
who we are and
who we aren't with.
Because these definitely aren't our names
and somehow
it's helping.

Entire Cities Made of Paper


                                                         ­                            —If you have no free time
Duck your head when you run down the stairs—
                                                         ­ —You will forget what you used to enjoy
Leave at 7:30, not 7:33, the bus is always early—
                                                          ­                                       —In your free time
Paper Thursday, integrate over frequency, tomorrow, today—
Entire bodies made from numbers—           —Entire cities made of paper

I used to swim in seas of possibilities—Now I only drown in rivers of ink

Love faked his name,
and past but not personality.
Heart-splitting talks of sentimentality.
In the shallow depths of my heart's sea,
Your voice is merely a memory.

Entrapped in your thoughts so discretely sublime.

You told me,
*"Love is the only conqueror of time."

When I am writing I am thinking of you
When I am thinking of you I am thinking of you
When I am breathing I am

Always.

Roller coaster plane ride
Nose dives into the ocean in my mind and all that's still on it is
You.

The clouds part like seas for Moses upon our inevitable arrival once again. I can see angels being hung by twine. The sky ran away from his kingdom to vacation upon the Earth. The soil soul rubs into his toes.

You are not an earthly being trapped in the clouds. You're heavenly gold bound to earth.

You're an opposite. A composite.

only write haikus
for lovers. this one is for
me. i ****** myself.

She, only exists in the dusk hours.
Clings to the breath after April showers
The Angel sings with a halo and wings made of lust
The bust of his lover still hovers in his hand
Meetings unplanned but demanded by both.
An oath meant for growth and simply no more—
Purely to adore his virginal *****, who never gives
What he lives for; only a taste for the lonely.
His mind is reeling with the thoughts of thieves.
     She leaves, and he waits.
Plans dates with weights made of steel on his back
Soon to crack from the lack of a meal,
His stomach filled with a ravenous zeal.
Thrilled with the build of his lover now returned,
She is burned by the flames of a snake spurned.

I remember the day well—
When your lips traveled down my neck like a greyhound bus,
Stopping at the station of my collarbone and lighting a cigarette there during the five-minute break.
Traced me down once more and—
All of your belongings still in the cargo hold—
then left.

they want your first words—your last words
but nothing in between

do not read between the lines

there is nothing written there

and tonight I think I love you—
and tonight I wrote that on your back.

and tonight I wish I didn't—
and tonight I told you that.

April 13th 12:28am

One day I'll be able to paint my mind
and it'll be that exact shade of eyes.

You yelled for me to
get the **** up off the floor
and smell something other than white powder roses.
I looked up and you had an 80-Watt halo—

*"All I wanted was to breath you in"

You stand on the edge
of my vision.
     Teasing?

So tantalizing.

Blurry,
but you manage
to radiate
with a perennial odor of:
Cigarettes.
****.
And bleach?

You are too far
for my arms to reach.

if the world before us were a binary search tree—
you and i can't carry on.
parent to nothing;
we were born leaves,
we stay leaves.
}

I look for inspiration in the people.
I find a hoard of ink, no paper.

I look for inspiration in the carpet.
I find an entire religion.

i still remember the specific strand of ****
that we breathed in february of first year
behind my building on saturday night
the first time you kissed me.

it wasn't the first time we had kissed
but the first time you had kissed me.
there was green on the taste of your lips
and blue under my tongue.

i walked by that same smoke bench a few weeks ago
wondering how many others had sat,
smoked the same strain, stolen the same memories.

You smell like green and brown and taste like cotton swabs and trees. When I see you I don't see you but I see rhythmicity. Your skin is liquid chocolate and your eyes are hot green tea. Your mind brings mine to philosophy and not radians nor degrees. I find you in the clouds and in the cycles of the sea, seeing that you say that we're just God in hide-and-seek.

There is a monster behind my back,
That no one else can see.
My eye can neither view him,
But I know he’s here with me.

The monster is there when you’re thinking,
And when you are awake.
But when you are sleeping,
your dreams he’ll forsake.

Call for him never, for he shall not show
But he’ll follow you far, wherever you go.
He’ll point out wrong, he’ll point out right.
And all the things that are not by sight.

He does not require any reward, nor fame.

There is a monster behind my back.
     “Conscience” is his name.

You spoke zero words to me, today
But that's okay—
I spoke zero to you as well

If I were the words
that fall like crosses from your lips
I would flow from your lungs like holy water,
opening your mouth like double mahogany doors.

If I were the words
that fall like crosses from your lips
and float down on guardian wings from your tongue
I would carry no sound but still be comparable
to church bells.

If I were the words
that fall like crosses from your lips
I would have been glad
to have been nothing more
than a word from the bible of your speech.

I'll always

see
your eyes closed
like chapel doors.

feel
your hands on my hips.
never thought you'd
explore heaven so early

hear
you pray
to someone who, 'sure as hell
ain't God.

all of me was based almost solely off of you-i don't know if
we acknowledged it or not, but we sure as hell
romanticized it. i still look for you in the places you once were.
i still look for you in the places you once were.

I cough—crimson flowers bloom on my palms,
sooner than the atom bomb can fall.

(Sprawling across
my fingertips, vines licking at my rose-hips, grinding
in a vice grip. I cough—the thorns shoot out of my stem
—cells. I am Eve and I've made my Garden out of spells.)

No sharks in the waters of your eyes.
No broken pens on the plane heading home.
No missing cards in the deck.
No long red lights and
No happy accidents.
No contrast for your happiness.
*Flying over the French alps but all I see are plateaus.

"Munro, one day you're gonna hate the world"



For a reason you never told me, you always called me by my last name.
Maybe you were avoiding the same name of the girl before me
(who loved and was never loved back)
And saying it made the truth so much more real.
You're a murderer.



"And it'll all be because of me."

my thoughts are caustic
our hips, smooth and spastic
in line like jigsaw rows

"where are you from?"
your voice cracks like a toy gun.
"come on—"

cannot trust a thought.
i know not if i am action, reaction, overreaction.
i reside somewhere between emotion and environment

seven candles
look a lot like seventeen lines
you never thought you'd be doing
a year ago

There is Braille above the warning on an electrical socket.
How do blind people know where the outlet is.

The second could have been three times as long, but you'll always remember the first.

canaries, doves, pigeons
in your image they made religions

pigeons, canaries, doves
both in seventeen and in love

doves, pigeons, canaries
scholars devoted to you, libraries.

Change me
Shape me
Meld my core
Carve me out
And hollow me more

Fill up my teacup body
With juice of thought
Nectar of a goddess too
Because I know not
And neither you.

ninety-six percent of all matter is unseen, but acknowledged.
I call it, "the second greatest taunt from god"
the first? to create you—


and take you away

Sorry    mother,
Haven't written much.

Too busy putting
    poetry and syllables
into overseas and livables.

Seven seas and billion people.
When we grow will we
upgrade the ocean?

Las Posadas, oh, a lot of, tequila mañana.
I listen to Mexican Radio in my room.
Sit in my bed and
wait for tomorrow.

I'm not ideal—I am irritation.
The words are steel with implication,
Bite my heel for malformation.
I am not real—I am animation.

-
-
*My eyes love you so much—
I only wanted to see two of you.
I only wanted to see two of you.

you are something akin to
a final shot of tequila on sunday night.
i wake up in the morning
push the covers off my body
and regret you.

You       make    me         feel    like      this    is    more    than       a          "more than,"          a    "less than,"          an    "equal to."
                  More       than       infinity,    a    vector,    a    scalar.    A       page-fifty-seven-numbers-one-three-and-twenty-two.        More ­   than    "x"        approaching      it's       limit.               More       than      a   dopamine,       seratonin,       oxycotin         cocktail.


      I'm   a      little                   drunk    and                I       love       you.
               You're          worrying             and                               I       love       you.
   You're          overthinking       the          unthinkable    and       rationalizing    the    irrational    and          I          lov­e       you.
      You're    crying          into    my                ex­istence    and                   I       love          you
      You're    spinning    in          circles    on    the ­   second          time    we          hung    out          and  ­ * holy    mother          *******             God-playing-hide-and-seek,                         I             love          you.*

      You    make    me          feel    lik­e    Moses    parting                seas    and    leading    al­l    of    my    dreams    across    to    a    Holy             ­   Ground.
         Like    a             supernova    explosion             and    you're             my    black          hole.
Pulling
       me
                           in.

Pillow       talk    of       original    sin.

         You       remind          me          of       documentaries       :    curl       up    on          the    couch          and       spend    the       day             away     in       blankets             and          still                not       have               wasted    a           ****        minute.

                        I                   ­      love             you       more    than       words    can       know,    and       when    I       told    you    that,       you    held    me    tighter.
My    head       feels    heavier       but    my       heart    a       lot    lighter.

I       feel         lucky          to      know          you,       let       alone       love    and       be          loved    by       you.       I      don't      believe         in      miracles   but      I      believe      you      are            a         blessing.

               I    hopped       to    the       edge    of       my    bed    and    found    the       Atlantic    Ocean       staring          me       down
You    haven't       even    gone,    yet          I    still       find    myself    counting       down       the    days    until       you    return.

Looking over my course guideline for philosophy 100 and all I can think of is how I could combine you and documentaries on Plato and Leibniz to cover both love and homework. My mom always told me to "work smarter not harder." The thought it always turning to you like (hour) hands on my (clock) face.

Fading,                                       I
remember    the     days    when
you  lingered   in  my  mouth—
like    the     small    yellow    pill
I    placed    under   my   tongue
to dissolve into my bloodstream.

We were sitting on your bathroom floor when you told me there was nothing worse than seeing people in the shadows—
you caught yourself because we both knew
that wasn't true.
we looked at our hands and thought of the times
we saw shadows in the people.

If
you had enjoyed the touch
of the grass on your skin
only a moment longer
than you did.

If
you had given into that
sweet street side indulgence
and walked but
twenty more steps into the night.

If
you had loved the lights
of the Paris city center
only thirty minutes more.

If
the sound of your opinions
fell quiet against
the sound of someone trying
to silence you with theirs.

The silence rings
like church bells
at three in the morning,
counting off
your debts
to you, me,
and everyone you've never spoken to.