No hasty decisions
should’ve been made,
so you say.

Is it habit or some
other innate thing drawing
in the opposites?

You remembered when I said
love could be like that thing inside atoms:
A force between the quarks and current

with no real will of its own,
but to pulse and pull

Nothing has changed.
Everything happens to stay
the same in an inane way.

I ****** up when I said
I love you after a careless laugh,
but you waited and then said it back
like you hoped instinct would be intact.

Every kiss stains
where you leave it,
and it changes nothing.

Every kiss fades
when you leave it.

He spoke with his nose against mine.
He closed his eyes and hesitated to kiss me gingerly
and when I did not deny him, he kissed me again.

And when I returned his affections
he gave a sigh of passionate relief,
his fingers imploring tenderly to
find the skin beneath cloth

within the sheets, and I
allowed him to. “I want you
to understand,” he said against
my lips, pulling me into him,
and so I tried to.

Are you done
making waves in
my body yet?

It doesn't like
to be upset. My
heart can't take it--
in the literal sense.

It's like why I can't really
listen to heavy metal music
even though I can listen to pretty
much anything else. There's something
about the vibrations that make my heart hurt,

and it's the same with you.

The worst part is
not that I love you

It's in how you've
become some routine
within the familiar
comfort of us

The nature of disintegration
is erratic, and inconsistent, and stilted.

I'm some real
thing, but no
real poet.

It's getting awfully
blank in
here.

I don't want
to waste time with
unsatisfied lines.

I need a new, sound
love. No use in chasing
poetic chord progressions.

While I
try to find
some peace
of mind that
could be mine,

the roots of
weeds tangle and
twist inside;

And time
goes by

I've not been myself
lately, I've been some
other archer firing off
blanks at a wide target

What's a poet that
doesn't write?
A thing that jot
down drivel before it
got down off its pedestal