one day,
i will shrink myself
small enough
to crawl into your heart and
remove all the darkness
that makes you
cut yourself out of your skin.

i remember the afternoon i thought i would die.
i remember the sun shining on our faces as we lay on the concrete.
i remember thanking the sun for making you so happy.
i remember the slow dance our bodies did to follow the sunlight.
i remember the music playing between us.
i remember falling off-beat every so often and finding a new place to regain our rhythm.
i remember the stares from strangers as they witnessed this beautiful sequence.
i remember ignoring the outside world and yet feeling more connected to it than ever before.
i remember wanting to hold you, but being happy just to stare.
i remember the flow of your hair and, when i was close enough, the smell.
i remember the curve of your ear, your nose, your neck.
i remember the simplicity of life in that moment.
i remember wanting to never leave that place.
i remember knowing that we had already left the place i wanted to stay.
i remember time and space continuing to move us away from it.
i remember the light fading, never to return.
i remember my passion growing, always to remain.
i remember my life passing before my eyes.
i remember staring at you and feeling all of the world's beauty in a single moment.
i remember the world collapsing on itself.

I wish to be in your arm at this hour
In your warmness during these cold nights
In your hugs when Im all insecures
I wish you'd shut me with putting your fingers on my lips.
I wish you'd laugh at my lamest joke.
I wish you'd hug me from the back while I was busy doing stuff.
I wish you and I could cuddle under the blanket. No i mean just cuddle.
I wish you'd wipe away my tears when I cried and kiss me.
'Its okay Im here' just simple as that. You know you can get me.
I wish you're here playing with my hair.
I wish you'd stay.

Most of all
I wish you were mine again

*Ai, Oct 7

"It's good, but maybe you should write shorter," I was told.
Granted this was told to me by a man that believes the word artistic
to be closely related to the word autistic, but I can only assume that riding any
unfamiliar wavelength is terribly confusing, if not immeasurably difficult.

Knowing that you can confide in yourself, whether or not I'm misinterpreting
individual delegation for conscience, I believe altruism to be fundamental to
a person before growth can occur. Unless of course you're writing short poems.
And if you're curious enough to implement apathy, sarcasm is a fine starting point.

They say that if you want to master something you need to perform daily.
Accompany this with the old adage, "Love what you do," and you can imagine the potential.
Mastering an activity with love is transcendent, calm although sometimes piquant.
Passion and pleasure aren't identical, but imagine the potential.

I don't bleed ink.
It has to be an attempt at benevolence, to say that.
Extreme literary pretensions you must have to bleed out.
Writing should have a pulse. It. Should. Make. Each. Word. Count.

Yet, when this man told me that my words are good, but I should keep it shorter,
knowing not if I could or would, I became curious as to why he worried more about
length and not the content and story as a whole. Then I had to rationalize this to myself, and thought: It would be easier to convey words with images, like a film or animation.

But I don't bleed ink,
and I guess I don't bleed popcorn.