Last week
the clocked ticked towards an
ungodly hour as the memories of you seemed to write themselves
in bold.

The fluorescent kitchen lights seduced me into believing they were diamonds,
swimming through my veins and
getting my every desire.

You once told me our lips were bridges and no matter where I am,
I can't seem to forget just how beautiful it once was to just
collapse into you.

You did this.
You put this hope back into me.
You seduced my dark days,
made them arch their backs and grab fistfuls of hair.

This must be the heaven of hell.
The barren place where my detached soul and
reignited passion
sneak off to make out under the stairwell of my old junior high school.

I had been safe and naive.
I thought words held meaning far more than just that moment,
and the future didn't look like the rough hands of a suicidal storm.

I had promised myself that I would never make that mistake again.
That is until your inevitably grey eyes penetrated my doubts and made room for trust.

It's the moving towards insanity that matters,
the becoming of something unimaginable;
Beyond false promises made with wondering eyes.

It's the space between a shot glass and my burning throat,
between your loaded lies
and my gullibility.

The shortest distance between
two poisons is a mangled
nightmare spooning me to sleep.

To me you will always be
the rising suns,
the sinking moons,
and all the stars that come
in-between.
The sound of rain
and river stones,
the warmth of my sheets and
the ache in my soul.

I'll always be the shack you never thought you could leave.
The chipped paint and
the stained carpets.
The stairs that lead to nothing and
the fridge with nothing but stagnate beer in it.
The broken windows that allow the brisk air to sneak in
and the ***** dishes flooding the sink.
I just hope that when you tell people about my cobwebs;
that you tell them who ******* made them.

"Write one sentence, the truest sentence that you know."-Hemingway

So I took his advice.

I wrote it on the walls of your slumber and
along the spines of my favorite days.
I painted it on windows,
we turned into doors,
and doors we turned into walls.
I wrote it on your sharp tongue
and all it's favorite places to explore,
the latitudes
and longitudes of a truth unraveled.

I will always love you.

It is important to write really bad pieces of poetry and prose.
Keep them in a journal somewhere.
Don't share them.
Just get them out there and tuck them away.
We must purge the cliche and mundane,
so that we may begin the work of creating art that moves.
We must press beyond the idiocy of our immediate thought and
find the inner wellspring of power.
Just beneath the petty complaints,
and regurgitated phrases,
inches deep beyond our projections and fears.
If we can sit long enough with our demons,
inner child,
and god-like spirits we will find something truly worth saying.
Worth giving.
Worth making.
Our legacy is planted only as deep as our honesty.

Learn to fall in love with your grief.
It is one of the most freeing things you can do for yourself.

If you're consumed by a deep,
stabbing anguish,
then it means your passionate,
it means you care about something enough to let it crack your bones and
boil your blood while intensity holds hands with zealousness and
locks lips with your spirit.

Never mistake your thundering sorrow for weakness.
It means you are not merely alive;
but you're ******* alive.

Little life.
Soft fingers turning pages.
You will never be the same as you were a moment ago.
Constantly moving and constantly learning.
Airplanes,
whispers and
cookie crumbs.
Already your life is moving faster and leaving yesterday to the dogs.
None of us are here forever,
but if only somehow I could freeze these little moments in time
and re-live them forever and ever.