She is too afraid of living in real life
So she would rather living in her poems

And suddenly,
All the sad poems were about her
She feels better,
Listen to the echo of its words
And how its make her feeling alive

Or at least,
It does not make her down,
Or leaving her
As everyone does

And it makes her feeling better

I want to write a

love letter to

you,

but I can’t

because

I don’t know you

yet.


I don’t know

if you’ll even

be able to

tolerate

the little things

I do

everyday.


How I

shake

my

hands

when anxiety

fills my body

over the stupid things.


Or how I

chew

the

straws

on every drink

I ever get.


Or how even

my

hands

are

shy

hiding under

sweater sleeves.


Maybe how

my

laugh

echoes

in a store

wherever we

go.


Will you be

able to

tolerate

such silly

little things,

my lover?


I want to write

you a

love letter,

but I don’t

even know

you yet.

I can hear your back crack,
in the dark.
Removing your underwear
with chewed fingernails:
You softly ask
if we can share scar tissue
and if I'll stay
despite every issue.

You try to kick the covers
off of our bed,
and ask if we can share the thoughts
buzzing inside of your head.

When insomnia erases your eyes
and disease steals your brain:
You inhale ways to die,
because you still dream
but it's not the same.

I can hear the static in your skull.
I know why you keep
the kitchen knives dull.
You pull on my fingers
so I don't forget you.
You cry on the pillows
and hope I like romance too.

I kiss your temple
during each thunderstorm.
I read you books in bed,
because your eyes are worn.
I put my ear to your chest
because I want you to see
that the air you breathe
means everything to me.

Dear reader,


It won't be long before they electrocute the trees with candy colored Christmas lights. Soon everything will be gone: memories, glances, the year. Every thing will dissolve into nostalgia and our lives will become more patchwork and less hopeful. Soul-crushingly sweet our smiles will be, as we watch that disguised meteorite crash into our existence.

Her name was Reno. Her dad joked he named her so because she was the result of a gamble gone wrong.

I could see the stitching around her eyes start to falter, as tears slipped out like a young nineteen year-old girl, running out of the back of a double-wide. Away. Away from it all. Leaving her father, the mechanic who could only fix things with his hands. Running through a field as shimmering as her nails, touching the tall grass with her short fingers.

"I'm not trailer trash," she said, "I've just had it rough."

Reno could see things others couldn't see. Frequently she painted wrecked cars, and I asked why, to which she explained, "Some accidents are allowed to be beautiful."

I fell for her the way her jaw drops after one of my inappropriate jokes: quickly and with such joy.

She had the same answer to when I asked if she liked movies and if she missed her mom.

"Of course I do, Josh," she looked at me and smiled, "Hey buck, have you ever seen True Romance?"

A woman after my own heart.

We watched Christian Slater shoot Drexl, and, like a bullet to the chest, she placed her hand over my heart.

"My, oh my, are you sure that rib cage is big enough for that thing, Mr. Haines?"

She looked a little like Patricia Arquette, but identical to Michelle Williams.

"Are you aware that you look like Michelle Williams?"

Reno ran her hands up my legs, across my torso, and held her hands at my jaw,"Are you aware of how good of a person you are, John Mayer?"

"Ah, yeah. I've gotten that since high school."

She smiled, looked down and up at me,"No, the part about you being a good person? ...You're the drawing on my wall."

I didn't know what that meant.

"I had this drawing-so terrible-it was of the sunset on our hill in Welling Valley," she looked into me and down, while smiling,"Anyway, the sun would kiss the grass every evening, and one day I thought I'd draw it and keep it in my room. When every thing got ugly with my daddy's drinking, and when he beat me something awful, I wanted something to remind me that the light sometimes goes away but will always be back another day. You're my light, Josh. You're the next day after nineteen years of cussing and drinking."

We made love on my bed, as, through the window, the sun bathed our bodies. Her body was a sculpture and her voice was as soft as her lips. I was terrified.

Pulling her hair back, she stood at the foot of my bed, naked,"Are you scared of little ole' me? You look as white as a ghost."

"No, I've never felt so alive... You're so ******* beautiful."

Reno and I lain in bed while Parks and Rec played on the television. Her index and ******* walked across my chest and stopped as she asked, "Josh, have you ever been in love?"

I touched my fingers on hers, studying them with my eyes, and then I looked at her, "Yes, once."

"What was it like?"

I thought I'd feel pain but instead I smiled, "Fantastic, fleeting, and always a little out of reach."

She cooed, "I can't wait until I think I love you like nobody else."

"Me too."



Sincerely,


Joshua Haines

You meant something to me.
Your lips tasted like nicotine, and your body made mine feel
like a burning building.
I wanted to scream at you and slap the
sense into you and leave you a thousand times over,
but I also wanted to *******, make love to you like we were the last
two people on earth and it was the only way to survive.
I wanted to claw and scratch at your skin for your attention,
but I also wanted you to shield your eyes because I was an
eclipse and baby, you would go blind.
I needed you like ******* air in my lungs,
while I craved you like the burn of ***** down my throat.
You scarred and tore me apart,
but you meant something to me.

Invisible wall
                 That separates me from you
                                                            **And everyone else

You were addicted to cigarettes
And you talked about how bad it was
How addictions were bad for you,

But soon, I became addicted to you
And you were right,

Addictions are bad for you.
They just end up hurting you

A.K.