I love him.
But secretly I adore you.

We are different.
But you and me are parallels.

He is complex
But you just understand.

He is all style
But you are substance.

He is all facts
But you are creative.

I don't know what do to.
But I know I'm lying.

I met a genius on the train
today
about 6 years old,
he sat beside me
and as the train
ran down along the coast
we came to the ocean
and then he looked at me
and said,
it's not pretty.

it was the first time I'd
realized
that.

We write about two AM because it is simplicity and we are underexposed. Overtime, simplicity becomes complex and subjective and harder to define. Soon you associate two AM with her hair holding on desperately to her shoulder blades, but at that point it doesn't matter what time it is because all your brain understands is her mouth and how badly you want to kiss it. Everything is clinging to something: hair to skin, sheets to mattress, mouth to teeth; but the real fear lies in what will end up letting go and this is why we are born with out fists clenched, because from the moment we are living, every insecurity spills like air out of a bag you thought was vacuum sealed. See, life is full of complexities and we can't seem to find permanent serenity, but, in the midst of it all, there are small things that resonate within us and soon we collapse into a string of cliches and we fight not to drown within them, collectively babbling and trying to make sense of the concept of never letting go.

Occasionally I'll
see her voice, in the current, up in the air
and a emphatic whisper washes behind my ear
like a stable vacuum, it is static.

And perhaps, even sometimes, in the street--
I'll watch the shadow of her figure.
And see the sweat
trickle
off her brow
onto her cheek.
Like a clogged siphon, it seeps.

Often, I will catch a glimpse of an
alabaster shoulder
or two.
Like drywall, they creak.

And always, but not at all, I sometimes
hold my breath long enough, and hear my heartbeat.
If I hold it longer, I hear yours.

Maybe I'm too accustomed to your being.  I’m too forgetful of mine.

the women of the past keep
phoning.
there was another yesterday
arrived from out of
state.
she wanted to see
me.
I told her
"no."

I don't want to see
them,
I won't see them.
it would be
awkward
gruesome and
useless.

I know some people who can
watch the same movie
more than
once.

not me.
once I know the
plot
once I know the
ending
whether it's happy or
unhappy or
just plain
dumb,
then

for me
that movie is
finished
forever
and that's why
I refuse
to let
any of my
old movies play
over and over again
for
years.