Pictures of us surround me
Memories of us haunt me
Your name stuck between my lips
I choke on it
Your scent lingers on my pillow
i bathe in it
Your blue eyes linger in my mind
I need it
I need you
I want you
I miss you
Please come back
please come home
I'm sorry
It;s all my fault
I'm so sorry

She wanted to be picture perfect,
so she broke herself down until she fit
inside of her very own frame...

What do I know about you, really?
For certain, only a few things.
Nothing about pictures or loves,
about the ghosts in your heart,
or something as simple as your cigarrette brand.
I've noticed that I know just enough
so I can never reach.

We can die laughing, that's true
and that is important for someone
who doesn't laugh enough. As I.

If I told you that I wouldn't mind to know
what make your eyes like two burnt holes in a blanket,
would you shred my ears to pieces?

If I confessed that I hang on your words
like a thrilled coward, that I have died many times,
would you fell silent?

These are the kind of questions
someone who doesn't know have.

I accept that I also keep people in the dark.
Flying blind, they must think "here goes nothing",
while they yearn for the ground. Have I done that to you?

If I was to fling myself onto you, for that matter,
absurd as the notion sounds, would you flinch away
and ask me to give my head a shake?

I know we are getting into the realm of imposible things,
of things that can blow in my face. Don't mind me,
let me quietly keep on barking to the moon.

Let's get this to a conclusion.
Of the few things I know, one is this:
you told me you are dark chocolate.
I will be sincere and confese that
I don't see where you're coming from.
One thing I know and I tell you now,
your are sweeter than that.

I hung pictures on the wall
The faces frowned at me
not because I hung them
by their frames
But because I nailed them there
instead.

She grew up
in the black and white era
and her hair shows it.

Her memories are technicolor
but her photos,
monochromatic.

Were his dreamy eyes
that drove her crazy
blue or green?

What color was
that dress she wore
to her sister's wedding

It's not for us to know,
for her colors stayed
in the black and white era.

It's picture day
I'm watching the freshmen scurry
To fluff their hair
And paint their lips
As the caffeinated college kids
Help to align their hips
With the X on the floor
That gets them out the door

The funniest part of this frame
Is how the teachers also scurry
In their self-obsessed shame

Photos of old,
Portals into a forgotten time.

Stomping feet upon fields of green,
Smiles and shining Eyes.

Where is the innocence?
Or the meaningless cares?

You were early morning fog that keeps rolling in on grassy hilltops.
Green covered in red and yellow and brown; a place where the living meets the dying.
Cool, minty breath, and the image of you rolling down that hill with a pumpkin in hand will haunt me for the rest of my life.
Orange hair, dark freckles on your face, pretty black tights and a bright yellow jacket that was almost too obnoxious for the beginning of September.

"When did the Autumn become the saddest season?" I asked her as she sipped her coffee as black mascara fell down her pink freckled cheeks.

Here’s to all the people that photobomb my holiday pictures,
unsuspecting exhibitionists in my summer memories.
After a while, I become fonder of them than of the places I’ve visited.
They now seem to know me better than most of my friends and relatives,
we start sharing secrets and unspeakable thoughts,
we become connected by an invisible red line,
that passes through all the virtual mess
and intimate celluloid of our afterlife.

I’m sure that somewhere,
in Russia,
or maybe in the Czech Republic,
there’s some poor *** schmuck that’s working up the nerve
to ask me out for a drink
or for some pasta,
not caring that I’m rushing through his photo,
on my way to a public restroom,
or a bar that serves all you can eat, drink and love.

The photos holding the proof of my existence in a certain moment
are facing the ground,
while their owners rehearse their speech
in front of the mirror,
leaving me and all the other tourists through life
behind the black hole library shelf,
in perfect equilibrium,
not knowing if I’m coming or leaving -
an impersonal group of pixels and dots, on a white piece of character.

Here’s to all the strangers in my heart!
Here’s to all the hearts to whom I’m a stranger!