The moments spent acting like you’re making love to a person
are the most blinding of them all.
Turn us into ashen cocktails of white and blue
from the flames of setting stars.

Those nights you become whitecaps on oceans,
she is sunset orange,
and only one of two wants to be there -
that is why you are always churning.

Each time you whisper “I love you,”
before her irises set behind eyelids
you will slowly realize you have been an actor
and this play has not been paying you.

You will one day quit pretending,
let this star exhale its own mortality,
begin finding the smiles you overlooked
while she flared above you;

When your waters calm,
you may find a new star to whisper to,
but this time without scripts;
this time Honestly.

The fireside retreats
into the wall
as another TV Christmas special repeats,
with its sound echoing in the hall.

Tangerine,
Satsuma,
Clementine-Orange
peel litters the tabletop;
orange runway for the action figures,
plastic arms, moulded hairs.

Nina Simone plays loud,
'Nobody Knows When You're Down And Out',
Christmas is over,
and now there's nowt to do.

full circle, nearly, although
i'm not sure around what
it is i seem to be revolving,
for i am not moon, nor star,
nor planet nor body of astral
importance; i am a boy, and
even then, the definition could
be more secure than it is, for
i am not a ship, i have no anchor,
nor sails, my starboard side is
used for writing and my port
is lost in the stormy blue of
the stripes on your dress shirt,
those matching the woven bracelet
i still haven't had the heart nor
gall to remove from my wrist,
like a watch, hands however
not spanning minutes or hours
ticking off each grain of sand
to fall,
[like taking inventory of eternity]
           but pointing incessantly
back to you again, though you
are not the true north i seek, and
a wristwatch has no real business
dealing with dimensions beyond
its design and understanding.
a compass is perhaps better
suited to my purpose, though
the bearing would be thrown
by the lumps of iron remaining
beneath my skin, like braille,
and i the blind man groping
for a means -- any means --
to decipher the message left
hidden in my very fibers
by the electromagnetism
of your goodbyes.

if ever i needed you it is now --
and still the portal you promised
is closed, and no music sounds
for me as it did for you, for it
is you who has quieted it.

Somewhere between
space
(and)
Gd
there's a star
made out of all the seconds you
cleared on the microwave
just before it was done because
you didn't want
to hear
it beep.
That is where time
goes when it's mad
at its parents, to play
old records and smoke
cheap cigarettes and
complain that its
best friend is dead.
My best friend/is dead/And although she would never sleep in the bed with me/And although she doesn't fit in the dollhouse anymore/I  dreamed she was gone the day before it happened/and dreamed she took a part of my life with her. That
is where
your thoughts go
the first time
you
don't miss someone as much as you did yesterday. I am not proud/that I am waiting/for tomorrow/you are that star/and I will sit on you and dangle my feet in the water/Meet me/in the Mediterranean/so I can kiss your toes goodbye.

Somewhere between
you
(and)
me
(and)
washing my hands in the morning,
I learned
how to lose things.

An empath and a mirror walk into a bar

and the empath says

I see myself in you.


Let me buy you too much wine and

kiss your collarbones and

twiddle my fingers on your skull.


and the mirror says,

Yehoshua (what a beautiful name)

Yehoshua, the prophet. I am so tired

of doing the right thing

My knees are sore I

want

my field of poppies.


So the Prophet says You can rest in my field

if you let me know you, the parts you keep

tied to your hips like bells, or like weights

that clinking prisoner's hymn strapped to your chest.

Know that I know you, even

the parts you left unsaid (Especially those.)

He says  

I want to have

my parents' strength.

I want a stranger to ***** in my bed.

I want to crawl into your head and hurt you with

your reflection. Open up your mouth and

I can put the words in myself, but I can't promise my

tongue won't taste like 20 years of forged metal

(And I

can't promise every pretty girl in town doesn't have

my metallic tinge behind her teeth.)


(So she says)

Why can't you stay still?

(and the Prophet says)

I'm always running late

(and she says)

*I've stopped running