I get into those deep places
we're entering digestion
the inside skin station
where everything comes together
to admire each other in the most unconditional of ways.

people talk about people as if they aren't some kind of thing
animals can be things, passions can be things, kisses can be things,
even moments can be things,
If I had to measure the distance between you and me
there would be not one thing in the way,
but me.

You see, I've been trying really hard lately to forget you.
It's like you've got me walked with window skin so everyone can see inside, and my eyes are rockets,
exploding,
screaming,
telling everyone who can't read,
anyone who doesn't have the time,
someone writing in a diary with blue ink,
that even though we go by different names,
you and I are more similar,
than the same anything.

So if you thought I was going to talk about that
deep dark mask I hide behind, then leave
because the too soon has come and gone too far,
you came here expecting something,
and I tell you to go out of mercy from the overflow,
because this is me standing here naked
in a mask of who I really am, which really is no mask at all.

This is no show for sad folks who want to feel anothers broken heart,
this is a spilling of one to another, through the small crowd intimacy
we sometimes long for and are suddenly surrounded, because it's so much easier to say it's about someone else and to never use their name.

If in my eyes were your eyes
and yours mine,
then nothing would change but for the directions in which we look.

I would love to find someone with the same stack of books on their bed-side table,
the ones they should be reading, but never do,
they're just too busy,
and they keep buying more,
adding to the stack.

I wouldn't mind drinking tea from a jar everyday,
the kind that you'd set in the sun to soak the day away.
I'd watch you from the window,
you'd smile and wave,
******* kisses,
the kisses that made me feel ***** when I woke up.

I would watch you fold the laundry
with your delicate hands,
all the time wishing you were folding me,
not caring about the neighbors,
or that the blinds were open.

I wouldn't dare give away those books,
the ones that we read together,
but I'd sell the ones you let me borrow that I never read,
I'll stuff them in my backpack and sell them for a buck a piece,
I bet you'll be sorry you left,
when you're missing those books,
those quotes,
I'll bet you'll be sorry,
when you're missing me.

I want to melt into the speakers
dance in the fibers of the fabric
that layers the plastic,
like a small child would with make-up
at the age of seven,
there's no such thing as too much,

Never a chance to remember,
all the time in the world to forget,
everything is perfectly fast:
in the moment.

Imagine living like that,
the sting of a bee on a young girls foot,
the screams
and the tears running down her confused face,
her eyes ask questions to the sky,
to her foot,
to the crushed remains of what caused her so much pain.

Then,
the kiss of a freshly peeled band-aid,
almost as soft as a mothers kiss,
almost as soothing as her cold hand on your forehead,
almost as sweet as the lullaby she would sing before you'd drift.

Always trying to fall asleep with your eyes open,
trying to catch every last inch of the sky,
counting the stars through the ceiling,
slowly falling asleep
without even realizing:
you're waking up.

I tried to read your pretty words,
but I was too distracted by happiness.
I wanted to take a picture,
but they don't sell my size film anymore.
And as I listened to the songs you shared with me,
I realized that anyone could like the same ones,
and that I was silly for thinking I was in love.

It made me think about that night with the guy I just met,
how his car was cold and I kept shaking,
and the music was really bad,
but I kissed him anyway.
Then afterwards on the way home,
I kept thinking about how beautiful you are,
and about how I wanted to see you that night.
How I still haven't gotten the chance to see the color of your eyes for myself.

I wrote some letters this week,
I want to write them to you too,
or maybe I'll call you,
I haven't heard your voice enough,
and I've almost memorized what I've heard already.

When I saw you drawing that hand,
I wished it was my hand,
and I wished you would reach out and hold it
as if you've held it a million times before,
but it meant more than anything to you,
and I wished that you would dream about the softness.

I feel like I should be embarrassed,
but I doubt you even check these anyway.

bye.

I've been clipping my nails in bed,
and I haven't vacuumed since you left,
but I never did anyway, that was always you,
same with the dishes.
I ended up breaking those,
I think the song I was listening to was too sad,
and it took control, and I lost myself.
I'm sorry, I hope you're not mad.
Would it be weird if I started to cry?
I think I might cry.
I'm happy though, I swear I'm happy.
Oh God, I hope I'm happy.

My hair is longer now,
I've been too tired to cut it,
and a little scared, because I know you like to cut hair.
I guess you could say I'm saving it for you,
even though I didn't save some other things,
more important things.
I keep remembering all these lies I told you,
and I've been writing them down,
trying to figure out how I could make up for them.
I guess I can't.
Okay,
I think I'm going to cry-

Our accumulative energy is making this happen:
The power of thought awakens emotion.
Move our hands, up and down,
glued together in a sadistic motion.
Pull on my teeth until I can't speak,
whisper in the language that makes me weak.

Use your mouth and open mine:
as hollow as the tv screen
you pull my hair until I scream.
Move and flow in my bed
Don't do something that you'll dread.
Turn to the direction of my door
I lay there naked on the floor.
Begging me with your sunken eyes,
the sun melts my skin and you leave me blind.