Sitting at your dining table,
I crack the pepper onto the plate
until it's warm between my hands
We laugh at jokes only we could laugh at.
You ask me how I've been.
No one ever asks me that,
And I don't know what to say.

I can't tell you how much I love you,
But I can listen to you talk about love,
And I can tell you what I miss about it,
And you can watch my eyes flicker at the thought of it,
And you can tell me why you can't seem to have it,
And the whole time it's right there,
Warm,
Between our hands.

Missing someone is not a negative emotion. It should not be accompanied by pain. This is a sign that you have loved, been loved, and that's a special kind of grief.

If I cry all my tears
in my first few years,
can I spend the rest of my life
with dry cheeks?

If I sit and I think
of every single possible
terrible thing,
can I finally loosen my chest?

If I hug and I hold
until both of us turn blue,
will I finally get over
the loss of you?

"i am lonely
will anyone speak to me"

how pathetic, most people
won't care

what's missing
how can we feel complete
when all of us are up all night
searching
for this forbidden missing peace.

We knew each other when we were young.
The hairs between my eyebrows touched.
Your chin was bare, and cheeks were smooth,
unperturbed by decaying youth.

Staring at my hands while you
looked intently at my dry lips.
Impassioned glances have not held
the same innocence since we've hit
the stage ruled by expectation.

You cross my mind from time to time.
Where loneliness meets longing, and
I miss the way my stomach felt
when your hand reached for mine.

I often wonder where the years
took you or what they took from you.
I know they took a lot from me.
A decade's worth of lessons spelled
with joy, agony, suffering.

I escape to you on some dark nights
because our fantasy stays pure.
Reality has not tainted
the picture embalmed in my mind.

Oh template for my deep desires,
I hope we never meet again,
so that I can always hold dear
the memories I've made for us.

Some things are better kept as secrets,
but secrets won't get him hard.

Some  things are better kept private,
but that won't make him c*m.

If you decide to show him,
he won't call you the next morning.

If you choose to refuse,
he'll leave you that same night.

Either way once you're done,
you'll be left laying in a puddle
of what used to be part of you,
but is now just pleasure fuel
for him to use once he's done
with you.

I spent a lonely weekend near somebody’s countryside home. Some miles north of a big city. By a lake in the middle of nowhere. The fresh air and sunlight were suffocating. This “retreat” was anything but. I wanted to run away, so I went for a run; shouts, laughs, and songs of prayer echoing behind me.

My feet went faster. The heat was oppressive. Almost as oppressive as a room of people I didn’t want to know. Or who didn’t want to know me. I kicked up dirt, choked on my own steps, dripped sweat onto my lips.

I rounded the corner behind the cathedral. Its tall tower tipped away from me with distaste. I kept running, nonetheless. The path was surrounded by vibrant, newly-seeded grass. At least something here was born again. I felt a cramp in my side and considered slowing down.

In the distance, a young nun in a blue habit blended in with the sky in my line of sight. Accompanying her was a young monk in brown. They walked in synchrony as if they had just stepped out of the book of John. He spoke with his hands. She listened with her eyes. Their smiles were the first real ones I had seen all weekend.

They were peace and I was hell running right towards them. They shared their smiles when they passed, and I struggled to reciprocate. I’m sure I looked insane. That image was locked in my head. In all honesty, I was jealous. How could someone be so joyful, so at peace?