Night comes fixing on the day,
And the sun is gone again.
He sit by his phone waiting,
He lays down waiting,
He looks at the ceiling waiting,
A light covers his room and his heart skips a beat,
He rushes to his phone faster than his heart beat,
A word from his loved one wakes up the butterflies inside him.

orange dewdrops chase your tail
follow you oh so quietly
the stone fox creeps into your world
trails behind you ever so slightly

patiently
your message waits for you to pick up the phone
you need to know so you may reap what you have sown

you are never alone.

every time my phone dings that chime I set,

our patterend steps have been
evenly paced
but sometimes i miss
a few, just so our hands won’t
graze
— a metronome
back and forth.

though I’d still steal
a glance from it: soft
fingers on keys, light wrist
on the right beat,
slender
palms fit
in my sweater sleeve.

wondering, how
quickly it can
thaw the frost in mine;
and before my boiling belly
boil over  
surrendering the
mistletoe nose;

how many are missing the same warmth I have yet to hold.

Hello dark.

The walls are wet
The cave is hidden
Legs cut through black water

Via rapid movement I reveal a face in the sand, a scar in the algorithm.

A body covers itself in lavender mist

Manly, soft and asleep, his eyes are emeralds buried by the salt of life.

The mans **** transforms into the fountain of lost dreams

Him
    He
       His phone is dead.
        Arms cool colored and heavy

A swimmers body.

The sand reappears around his face. The grains shape into a pair of headphones arched over his skull, like the sweeping architectural feats of those ancient cathedrals.

Lights of subway tunnels devour the faces of strangers  


Wet
   Glittering rock
The Nobel breast stroke
Head above water
   Feet kick past the abyss

Our naked bodies press against one another.  dancing to the glorious choir of nothingness

a ghost of west coast dreams  

He ***** himself to sleep every night
As he waits for future/past lovers
And dreams of ugly angels

This device in which they call, "phone," has now become a source of sadness every time I set my eyes on it and the first word that my eyes encounter is "Mummy"
red
green
cut
pick
Which one should I do?
I am stuck in the world between those two
The green might bring joy or pain, for her voice most of time times makes me feel disdain
Pick: my grades. Distraction, I face
That's all she ever says
and whenever any good words come out of her mouth, they don't last long because they come with warning reminding me that I can be foolish most of the times
Red I pick, punishment I feel. Pain, I'm inflicted
I guess she is my supreme being
Never will she admit that from her mouth, but when I cut the call, I remember that she made love and I was the result so if not for her, I would not be in this world.

But then ... I'm stuck in the world between those two.
No red
No green
No cut
No pick
I just let it ring and dance to the rhythm.

She saw me with the twinkle in her eye
A smirk a wry grin mistaken for a cry
The smooth sound of voice with voice
Satiny smooth skin a perk of the ear, her choice
Her sensory saucy chagrin the uplift of silky tragedies
The embulient sound of, come hither, wise words that look to expound from deep forgotten cavities
Alas.
How one tries to read a phone!

My phone clock said it's 18:0011
And I wondered if I traveled back in time.
But then I realised, once again,
You can only do that after midnight.