and turned off the lights in the daytime
turned off the light and it was snowing outside
it is snowing outside today

and I'm still still waiting

30.11.18

Two pigeons
Resting lip of ATM
Nature's kind tellers.

what, already
that aroma;
not a single spoon
of sugar:
the better
the awakening;
my coffee grinning,
shaking me

there's no way
to backtrack;
I'm sipping from b-cups,
kicking into gear...

flash forward;
(flesh in the background)
absentmindedly
chasing destination
instead of destiny,
always in a hurry

coffee drops
now drying up
disheveled,
the only ones
still keeping
memory of lips
retreating
like the waves
caressing shores
goodbye

long gone is
the reflection
undulating eyes

thoughts are perched
on mornings:
the old ones,
the upcoming...

It was suddenly twenty-eight minutes
                 after three in the morning,
and I found myself in your bedroom.
     Your sheets were cheap and creased,
                     your quilt was older than you,
                   and your pillow cases didn't match.
There were three pillows, and you had all of them.
                                                                ­       I didn't mind.

Your breathing was the steadiest thing in your life right now,
              and your back rose and fell
                          as regularly as your hopes did in the daytime.

                    There was nothing on your back -
           whatever was there
an indefinite number of hours previously
     had joined the convention of disorganized stress on the floor
              that slept a mere seven and a half inches from us.

                      The mattress was as warm as we were,
           and the whole of it held tightly to the scratched hardwood floor
that was probably still owned by those that lived here before you.

                                                           There was an appalling lack
                                            of glow-in-the-dark stars
                              on your dull, cracked ceiling.

as the daylight breaks through
the stained-glass window and
rests upon your sleeping face
like a blanket

i like to look at you this way
when dream world is still open for you,
your day hasn't yet started and you're
untouched by the rest of the world.
just dreaming.

i feel like this is perfection.

your soft hair, your eyelashes,
the gentle rise and fall of your chest,
those lips that are (somehow) even more
perfect than they were the night before.
the lips are my favorite.

i think about kissing you, tasting you,
folding myself into your tattoos,
lifting you gently back into your body
so I can once again be with you

but I linger in this moment a little
longer. savor it a little more. allowing
you more time in the mystical purity
of your dreams. allowing myself to bask
in this budding garden a little more.  

and I hope that in your dreams you are a king.

Oh how cruel the day is.
Slant rays invade my space
because the curtained covered
windows can only bend them
not completely conceal
the light that I feel on my skin.

Partially piercing my eyelids
daylight becomes a strange shade
Of red, orange, and annoyed.

Warmth trumps cool sheets.
Sunny Sunday sounds sneak in
with the interrupting day.
I wish it all would go away.

Bring back the melatonin moments.
Bring back the colors of the night
dark, quiet, and tranquil as death
with my memories still intact.

But if I brought the evening back
I would want to stay awake
cause I love that silent night
and hate that ******* sunlit day.

I woke up one day and breathed in your cologne
even though only one side of the bed was warm
even though only one side of the bed left
the shadows of dreams and fingerprints of nightmares.

And later, when my bed is made and both sides are cold and pressed,
I heard your laugh when I pushed my
hair behind my ear, distant.
     close.
Soft, even though my windows are locked and frozen shut.
Evident, even though my breakfast
is a black cup of coffee
and humming to myself.

But I put my hair back in front of my ears and go to work.
Where I taste your words
with breaths in and out.
I turn them over, sweet, truthful,
unlike my black coffee that I use
to drown out, to block out,
     to
          close
               out
what is true on my tongue,
between my teeth and sitting on my lips,
ever whispering without sound.
And I can't stop breaking apart your
words in my mouth
so I can taste each
     syllable.
But they are dull, old tastes that I beg to stay fresh,
but you are not here.
     And I cannot
     swallow
     your
    perfect
    words.
They tease and tickle my throat.
     sweet.
But unreachable, no matter
how many times I try to unravel
the truths on my tongue.

By the end of the day, on my couch-I am tired from your laugh
between the strands of my hair,
but an unreachable shadow;
and I am tired from your words
that are sugary and ****
     and distant because I put them
in my mouth months ago.
And even though I want to close my eyes,
I do not.
Because your face on the pillow next to me
taunts me behind my eyelids
and your fingers on my belly
are just beyond reach when I lay down
and your breath in my ear
is too cold on my ear.

And if I let it ,your memory will
never let me live.