I want to lay between
the lines of your
name,
and stay there until i hear your,
voice again.
And as the rain falls in parralel lines against the window as we take flight, i
cant help but see
creases of your soul
hidden in the spaces between
each one.

where do you think he is right now?
somewhere across the sky
writing love letters to a girl
who doesn't have a tint of green in her eyes
(he always said that was my most beautiful feature)
where do you think he is right now?
somewhere between the seas
sketching her undressed body
one free of bruised thighs
(he loved the purple against the white of my skin)
where do you think he is right now?
somewhere where the clouds run wild
watching the sunset, holding her hand
her nails aren't short and manicured
(he loved how mine were always neat)
where do you think he is?
somewhere where the memory of me floats
lying next to a girl with a birthmark on her neck
*(but he was still in love with the girl with a birthmark next to her mouth)

another cup of coffee down the hatch
                  can't find a reason to stay awake;

another cup of coffee down the hatch-
                                             **forced survival.

I've been awake
since five A.M.
I went to bed
at three.
And I can't decide,
if I want her,
or a bottle of whiskey.

What if
          I
                                                  ­Fall
In
              Love
With
      A
       Poet?
What if he mesmerises me
       With his lines?
What if
        His words touch me
        And kiss
           Through my skin?
     What if i search for
Him
Everyday
And
      Travel through
              His words
    And meet him
                  Somewhere
       And
We
       Become bare
          And he caresses
Me
          With every
      Stanza
And
       Here
           I am
                Again
Searching
           For him,
    Wanting
Him
        With
                 All
                      Desire
Waiting
             For
                 His
                   Next
                      Poem
                         To
                            Take
                             ­ Me
                          To
                       His
                   World
                Where
             We
          Will
        Lay
      Bare
   What if
               I
                  Fall in love
                      With
                  A
             ­         Poet?

© Evna-Luna

Said the little boy, "Sometimes I drop my spoon."
Said the old man, "I do that too."
The little boy whispered, "I wet my pants."
"I do that too," laughed the little old man.
Said the little boy, "I often cry."
The old man nodded, "So do I."
"But worst of all," said the boy, "it seems
Grown-ups don't pay attention to me."
And he felt the warmth of a wrinkled old hand.
"I know what you mean," said the little old man.

It's the way you look into her eyes
when you talk to her.


And even when youre not together.
You still speak about her like she's your universe.


And I,
Im just a listener.