I fall for you
cause my heart needs love to brew
and i am aware
but i started to care
you are heavy fog of the morning
and i am of a kind that blooms in spring
I need you
to love me
cover me in this dew
I can beg you to fall
but i can't hold you at all
you'll wet everyone
but own by none

Child are you grieving
To words she is leaving
And though she gave
To you her own grave
You seem to not care
For what was once there

The other day something good happened to me and you were the first person I wanted to call. Today sometjing terribly bad has happened to me and you are still the first person I wanted to call. But we are enstranged and pride has me looking the other side. What you said pissed me off. Partly because i was hurt.  Am still wondering if what you said about is remotely true! How can we remedy this? Can it be remedied?
It is selfish of me to just think about my feelings! Am trying to not be self-absorbant. Am working on it. Not for you but for me. It matters to me that the people I love feel safe and magical around me.  
There are things I want to say to your face. It is strange to me that even after all these time I wish only good things for you. Not to blow my own horn but I am very smooth at grudges and plotting revenge. Its a gift from the dark side.
If this hasn't come across since you started to read this then I hope it is clear now. Our sister-hood still matters to me. As cramped up and damaged as it is now, I still have pieces of you engraved in my heart.

Yours
The Red_Head

My home is a wasteland of cigarette butts and coffee cups
Help in repose for better mornings
Where a bitter taste in my throat lays dormant
And I think alone, in regret of nothing

As fresh pot brews and fag ignite, thumbing my finger ring.
Tracing back words in search for other purpose,
realizing secrets as regrettable burden.
Clear throat for first sip, and light a second cigarette.

It is not insomnia but rather being too bored to sleep.
It is not knowing what to do with your hands
When someone says they love you.
It is wanting to discuss film, art--
Hell, anything, with anyone--
Only to talk yourself down
Before the words escape your throat.
And yes, All the words come from there.
Some guttural utterance only heard for those that care.
That pesters you too.

All the nerves in all the world with all the words,
and there's nothing wrong with them in my head.
Passions intermix and weaken,
with every passing moment of thinking,
So I speak of Russian filmography,
mingle as hands press to small of your back.
In an instant, a stutter, a wide expression.
But my hands were always in my pockets anyway.

"Sometimes the curtains are just blue,"
An old professor told me once
From behind his olive green desk--
In front of a whiteboard that made him look small.
Curled over, I respected him more
For the fact that he knew
Nothing everything has a purpose.

Purpose is as purpose does, "I know I know nothing."
Pretentious is as we may be, sentences full of stuffing.
Like our shirts and puffing chests, teach me like you went to university.
Analyze in caffeinated anxiety every word ever said to me.

There is no more room to wander,
within the wild, blue yonder.
All the skies and seas are dead to explore.
No new ports, forgotten resorts; a lack
of virgin shores for rich men to ravish,
in search of riches much more.
Sea-faring clime possessed on the backs of child,
rode as destiny manifest,
wrote during storm, through mild.
More words than shores coalesced.

But the words explode from me—
Like some powerful wave meant only
To wash things that should not be, away.
Every syllable hovering, quivering
At the corners of my mouth—
As they carry me to beaches where feet
walk less timid, walk with less freedom
than I could ever hope to possess.

If we must be in hope and wish for probity,
in the minds and hearts and waters at sea.
Lift from masthead our daughters and brides,
so they last instead until martrimony decree.
And when vows written in logs of Captain
are all we accomplish lead by sextant see.
All things are permissible deep in our dreams,
yet chapel bell is rung not by sexton, but me.

I am my own Captain—
Luring those splashing wanderers not to safety—
No,
I lead them to drown with me.
The extra weight needed, begged for
So that we may appear as a sixteenth century painting
Brushes stroked in the last sip of black tea
to mimic some reality
Ive only touched myself to in sleep.

We are agasp toward bottoms, and fall from heights.
Whereas one of us sinks,
the other heaves into dives.
We are without fathom,
as water stings our eyes blind.
Struggle, you cannot lack fight, it will happen
whether you wish.
We are both rats, a Captain between us,
forgoing a sinking ship.
You abhor tradition in lieu to survive.

Set it afire,
So we can watch from underneath
As through some television screen
The world we knew, we know
rise up in smoke to signal no one.

You only love once.