Kissing her was more than transcendent.
I came to the realization that this one moment was infinite.
Setting ourselves as a door.
Revolving the same emotion that otherwise would flee.
The exact teachings teachers and prophets set as the floor.
We elevated.
Our breath becoming the message stuffed in the folds of our mouths.
Licked and sealed.
We were but envelopes made of flesh.
Our ***** left open, receiving the best of our former selves.
We discussed the effects of paper once wet.
Neither of us cared.
Becoming one with another.
Our fears smeared across our face.
No longer a label our stamps fell off.
We categorized ourselves the sender of mail we often thought to send.
But as over thought occurs.
We become shuffled around. Lost in thought.
Until we mailed ourselves.
***** left open

I wrote letters
for myself
five years from now
telling him
that it's okay
to cry
once in a while
that tears
are not a sign
of weakness
but an emotion
taking shape
freeing itself
from the binds of body.

I comfort him
with lies
telling him
that if he waits
eventually
everything will
turn out
fine,
that the fire
won't burn as much
if left untouched

I tell him
that broken guitars
can sing too.
Out of tune
maybe
but the melody
is there
howling
on the moon
and the shadows
are its audience.

I convince him
to tuck himself on bed
every night
and sleep
to count the sheep
and drift away
without the help
of tears.

I tell him
that I hope
five years from now
that he reads
these letters,
that i pray
it won't be left
unread
collecting dust
in the corner
of an empty room
deprived of joy
and life.

i collect stamps
not the mail kind
not the male kind
not the may hill kind
not the mayo ill kind
not the may hue kind
not the maim yew kind
not the mwaya view kind
not the mwayam myeil kind
not the amaway yilovski kind
not the mynsigwi malomisten kind
snot snee smail skind
rot tree trail rind
trotsky braille grind
hot bree hail's tine
kind
kind
kind
kind
kind
kind
kind
kind
kind
kind
kind
kind
­kind
mail
mali
alim
liam
ailm
ailm
ailm

My heart was like a mail box.
Waiting for one piece of mail in particular.
A special letter hand delivered.
The promise of sealed flap, carefully stamped addressed perfectly.
Scented in heavy anticipation.
There I stood in different variation of weather.
Going from hot to cold, the thought alone keeping me warm, closed in.
Suppressing everything that I held in.
The flutter of ads, bills, and different envelopes addressed to other P.O boxes helped build this anticipation.
Waiting for the moment I could open my mouth and accept you for everything you are.
Pouring your heart out in full stationary fashion.
Without hands to satisfy such anticipation.
To open such a flap and grant myself the gift of you kind of puts us in awkward disposition.
But the urgency of it all is as clear as day

And when it comes to her.
She leaves little to no room for any moment to be occupied by something else.
Even with that being said. It still feels like there isn't enough time in the day.
No matter what happens.
I'll always remember how it feels.
The stroke of her cheek against mine.
Trapped together in a cardboard box.
Frame by each corner.
A genuine box. Wrapped tightly in the gentle caress of arms.
It seemed like a good idea. Provoking each other's silliness.
Considering how attached we were, it really seemed like a good idea.
No special paper, no gift wrap.
Just scrunched up faces in a small space. Trying to figure out how to tape ourselves in.
Postage stamps sealed to the side.
In deep thought wondering where we'd end up next.
If only we could keep one flap closed while one of us taped us in.
I suppose it would be easier if we brought tickets and boarded a plane.
But wheres the fun in that.
Mailing ourselves away for a day or two
Realizing that the best things in life are free

I always wish
That hand-writing
A letter
Didn’t go out of style.

I miss the excitement
Of getting something in the mail.
Opening a hand addressed envelope
And reading the words sent to me.

But now
All I get in the mail
Is bills and unwanted
Or needed, advertisements.