We sit on the opposite sides of a solid glass wall. I do not see you breathing but rather hear it the way I heard your hands waving goodbye. You haven’t changed. Its been three months and your sly smile still embodies every plan I had for the future except now you are somebody else’s future and I am still struggling to define the word.
You can not hear me from this side of the glass but it doesn’t matter anyway. Every word I’ve ever said to you has already been said. Every word I say to anybody else is a hollowed echo of things I have described to you, highlighted in love.
Although I can not speak, I trace words over the glass. I wanted to give you every poem in the world but words were never enough and no poetry could make somebody like you love me back. But I will give it all to you, here in this moment. My fingers trace the ghosts of words over the slick cold surface. As soon as my hand leaves, the words float up into the air and suffocate the room with all of the metaphors I have tried to give you.
You stare blankly at me etching my loneliness into thin, nonexistent words. And you start to run your fingers over the glass too. You let your emotions spill out in the form of art. You paint canvases of landscapes that you always wanted to see and dreams that you never truly let go. They spill out of you like tears that you once told me you never knew how to spill. I fall in love all over again with the ability you have to paint the future, which I had always found so bleak. In this one moment, my words and your art spin together in a dance that was always too exhausting for you and not enough for me.
Although our fingerprints do not stick, the wall comes alive with all of the nights I had given to you. Moonlight picnics and warm summer days fill my head like a flood that you had pushed me into and I had gladly drowned in. Now, I spend nights pushing back up but the water will never truly let me out. I watch the beach spin out before me with you pulling me in and waves crashing over us. I remember thinking that we were the smallest things on earth, standing before the limitless ocean. We had been brought too each other.
I stop and push my hand to the glass, hoping that you will push your hand to mine. The whole wall will melt and we will fold back into each other. Every night for the last three months were just a countdown to feeling whole again after becoming so broken, but you continue to draw. I stare deeply into you, hoping to find the artist that painted her portrait on my heart. It doesn’t happen. You continue to draw.
I realize now,
that the glass is a one way mirror.
You cannot see me. I am still floating into visions of you that **** up your last words of “I don’t care about you anymore.” I am still the overdramatic poet you had always know me as.
And none of your art was ever for me.

I’m a junk sale ******
As a matter of fact.
It has to be addiction
Because that’s how I act.
I just can’t help myself
I buy what I see.
It’s almost like the stuff
Is calling to me.

I drive by a yard and see
A ringer washing machine
And say to myself
Wouldn’t that be keen?
I could do my washing
And ring it nearly dry.
So, I buy the thing and
Don’t ask me why.

I’m a junk sale ******
As a matter of fact.
It has to be addiction
Because that’s how I act.

I once found a deal
On a gerbil habitat.
I bought it and took it home.
That’s just where I’m at.
That I don’t have a gerbil
Is a minor detail.
I just can’t resist a good
Price in a sale.

I just can’t help myself
I buy what I see.
It’s almost like the stuff
Is calling to me.

People have told me
If I ever get a bride
She’ll be someone
I met on the roadside.
But I quickly add that I
Might be the worst
Because I would look
At the sale items first.

I’m a junk sale ******
As a matter of fact.
It has to be addiction
Because that’s how I act.
I just can’t help myself
I buy what I see.
It’s almost like the stuff
Is calling to me.

a few weeks back an
acquaintance
of mine, and i were playing
hacky sack
with one of those mini bibles that they hand out
we were making jokes about how we were those
atheists
your parents warned you about

today i saw a guy i used to go to church with
he seemed well off and happy
and i found myself being happy for him
given his circumstances in the past few years

i'm not quite sure what made me start hating religion
it makes so many people happy
it gives so many people purpose
and i used to love this purpose giving
faith driven
machine
but now i find myself giving god the *******
and giving god a little g
and putting god on my shelf, collecting dust
just like that bible i used to hold dear.

maybe it was depression that made me start hating religion
that's what i always blame it on.
depression
that's a dangerous thing.
i've just noticed that my belief in a higher deity began to
deteriorate
as soon as i started getting sadder
it was almost synonymous
then when i started getting
happier
my beliefs continued to become less and less.

in church they always talked about the story of job
the man who had so much faith
that through all of the **** god put him through
he still remained faithful.
i remember one point in my life i tried explaining that to one of my
atheist
friends.
he told me he didn't understand
and that it was really ****** of god to do something like that.
i tried to explain it
but i found myself at a loss for words
he now attends church regularly and we don't
speak
anymore.

perhaps it was the feeling of rebellion that made it fade
it's difficult being raised in a religious household
so that the one moment when i tasted freedom from the
choking
restraints
my parents put on me
i couldn't get enough of it.
cause let's face it
sin is fun
and i haven't been able to stop ever since.

i'm happy when people are happy with religion
i was much happier with religion
but i can't find myself to go back to it
no matter how hard i try the idea of god
or some form of higher being
just doesn't give me the same
feeling
that it used to.
i wish i could say it did.
sorry, god.

The smell of the grass reminds me of home
The old "hello's" ring through

The bark of the tree reminds me of ice cream cones
Cold vanilla made my fingers move

The texture of this rope reminds me of old
The smell of the air reminds me of hope

soft voices and poor choices have led me here.
i want to laugh at how
my face shows its fear.
indecision and lack of vision
have left me for dead;
fed to the angry beast
left behind, in my head.
streams of consciousness
and everlasting thoughtlessness
make waves in their wake.
it all bends and breaks.
friends working to
stop the aches.
soon the lurking beast will awaken
and my world will be shaken,
but for now,
i will stay on my journey
to a jury
that will put these voices
to rest.

Call me antediluvian, 
But I want to hold you by your hand
Kiss you on the cheek
Whisper, I love you
Call me delirious
I'm just in love.

‎It's hard to say,
That your body animates me
It's hard to say, 
That I want you

It's hard to say, 
That I want to caress your every flaw with my tongue 
It's hard to say, 
That I want to make love to you.

It's hard to say
What words cannot do

Like art
I want to draw you
Trace every inch of you with my fingers
Read every bit till your breath hinges
Watch every part till your toes curl.

It's hard to say,
What words cannot do.

Let me taste your thoughts with my tongue
Inhale the sounds you make
Exhale and grunt to the way your back archs

It's hard to say
What words cannot do.

When there's so much to do
That words cannot say

I trusted you.

It's not much, three words
not love or endless faith proclimations
nothing more than a smile and a fond glance, maybe
it's not like we've known each other all that long

but it adds up, you know?
Simple math, add the hours to the days
and those conversations we had late at night
and get the solution:
a night where I felt like I could pour out my soul
Not much, not much,
but enough

Then shock, betrayal
I added it wrong, carried a one that wasn't there
and somehow expected more of you
My mistake, tactically stupid, I know
Who goes to war with an ally they hadn't tried in battle
with no written record of a truce?
Rookie mistake.

I won't be so foolish again

int. bed

you can't remember when you woke up. dragged and feeling drugged, you spend your days in a state of being half-awake. life has become too bothersome.

int. living room

afternoons where the light enters the jalousie windows has always been a delight. it's probably a good thing you are still delighted by some of the little things in this world.

ext. stairs

at a young age, you've hurt others (unintentionally?) and learned how to lie, trying to save yourself from the annoyance and shame of being physically and emotionally hurt. you sly devil, you.

ext. the yard

there's a faucet left open, creating a stream where the leaves and dirt are washed away into the sewers. the water's flow is perfect for launching paper boats to their one-way trip to nowhere.

int. bathroom

the dark green tiles of the room is growing increasingly dark thanks to the amount of cigarettes you smoke inside, trying to know peace by locking yourself in cramped space. it does not help.

ext. the streetlamp outside the gate

cold kisses from the wind soothe you after rounds of tomorrow's regret. beneath the pale moon, you dance with your shadow, alone, miserable but happy. the recurring sadness brought on by these nights has been a part of your life for so long that you welcome it with open arms like a friend.