fingers tapping against your thigh, music note mumblings. subtract everyone else and watch the feeling
disassemble and reassemble the ensemble and allocate your earnings as earnestly as you can without appearing overeager. overhearing a conspiracy between my lips and your neck. a secret isn't a secret unless you whisper it, so do it, make sure the russians don't hear us as they rush off to give reports on that look I just gave you, the one that is oh so telling. reveling in it. living in the revelation of your skin, pouring down your presence like honey, like sweet molasses dripping thick and sweet, simmering under the sun, glimmering in the water like a jewel, jealous and tart, painful and dark and dazzling. beating only in anatomical hearts, out of tune, cacophony and cruel crimson, missing someone not something, left wanting and waning in the light of a lopsided moon, farsighted and fingers that prune in purple light rippling across the walls, willing to travel the planes of your body, embodied travesty traversing the sahara, dunes doomed to be swept away by the wind, breaking and kept away, each grain unable to touch one another more than once, gorgeous enough to be pain, staking your claim on misery before the misers bury it in their own backyards, backwards discovery, a convenient amnesia, believing ruses and runes to decipher in delicate dictum like tricking a language into translating itself.
almost too much of not enough.
for more than a year,
I have been stuck with the indecision to
and it's as if I torture myself with the thought
of what I would do
if you were to bump into me at the grocery store
hair grown out past your chin,
bloodshot eyes; you smell like beer and piss.
would I have the courage to confront you?
or would I take on the "little girl lost" persona
i oh so often do
and crouch behind the stand of sunflowers,
waiting until you have finished fishing through to find your favorite muffins from the display
and go on your way
i just can't fathom
after all these months of trying to change myself,
i can't change the fact that you are still plaguing my body
the bruises on my lips can still be felt.
your scent fills up the room that you refuse to walk into
and it must be some kind of fucking sickness
that no matter what you could have said to me and make me cry
it won't be enough to scare me away
Stockholm syndrome for the ones who keep themselves imprisoned in another's memory
you have made me sick and perverted
but I love you for it.
August is the dreary, immobilizing heat at the height of summer weariness
and languid romantics.
It is alone on the trail in the woods,
head thrown back,
against the pavement with sleep in mind,
a hand dangling over the edge into the pool.
It is feet dragging through the dirt below the swing,
back and forth,
beneath the dome of stars and the hazy mahogany clouds sauntering past the burnt hue of the nearly colorless sky,
and the heat lightning and the blue and green glow that rests upon the blackened treetops that surround you on all sides
on a canoe in the middle of the lake as mosquitos nip at your skin,
but you care little because you feel just about as small in comparison to the universe as they do in comparison to you,
and you wish that you were as hungry to bite at the world beyond the horizon's trees as they are.
They prick your skin for the blood that lies beneath it.
You only wish you had the courage to strike the earth.
Love isn’t perfect or flawless, it’s messy and real.
And honestly, that’s the beauty of it.
Love can be like coffee; bitter and denying you of rest.
Love can bring down your mood without the intention to,
And affect your emotions with every action of theirs.
It stays with you and drags you down but it also lifts you up.
Love is cruel. Love is a disease that is ridded through countless operations, with you as the doctor, and even then, love leaves a scar. A scar. A permanent reminder of your experience.
But... love is reckless. It's exciting. Love is an opportunity. Love is an adventure - and not the same adventure that you find walking in a new city... no... love is the sort of adventure you find when you open a book for the first time. Love is the feeling of hearing the song that for a small time, or a long time, you will call your favorite.
Love is as punishing as fire, and as deep as the ocean. Love well bruise, bend, and kick you while you're down. Love hurts, and love makes you stronger. But you know what's the most ironic thing about love? Through all the agony and pain it may put us through...
We need it.
I am a whisper in the current of time.
I am a lonely voice in a choir of billions.
I am a single note in the symphony of the universe.
The Aztecs believed that one died 3 times.
Once, when their body stopped functioning, another, when one’s body is laid in the ground, and finally, when the last person on Earth passes, or forgets one’s story.
One day, my story will fade like a breath on a cold day.
One day, my story will be buried under the infinite amount of stories to come.
One day, my story, like the final note of a song, will cease to ring.
But even though my story will eventually come to pass, it existed.
Our joys, our struggles, our smiles, our tears - our experiences; existed.
Though there are many stories happening at the present moment, and you have a story of your own, in my story, you play a lead role.
So maybe in the grand scheme of the universe, we are small and insignificant,
But never, for a single second, doubt that you matter in someone’s life.
In my own, you will, and will always be, a part of it.
I sometimes feel suffocated.
There isn't enough fresh air in the world
To help me breath deeply.
One inhale and it would all be used up.
I could drink all the oceans and
Melt the glaciers
And my head would continue to throb
I look around and I am a giant.
The earth isn't vast enough.
When I stand, my head hits the ceiling.
I want something grander.
I want to hold one long, loud note
Until the vibrations cause earthquakes.
Break through the earth-ceiling
And find myself in outer space.
I won't feel claustrophobic there.
The steam was heavy
My hands in my drenched hair
Her tearful speech beyond the shower
The blood-soaked kleenex on the floor
I forgot to take my meds
I was a decanter
Full of bottom-shelf spirit
Vacillating on the edge of a table
Her shaking midnight voice
Dropped like hot water
Against the hyacinth curtain
When she told me to get fucked
I feel my innocence
through fingers clasped as tight as
sand slipping to the ocean floor
Thick waves engulfing it and tying it down
around my neck i feel the weight
of the opportunities i’ve missed out
and i’m not sure how much longer i can keep afloat
without letting the doubts sink me down by hidden treasure chests of siren calls.