Being away from home makes me able to do anything I want without my parents having a panic.
I mean they don’t know that every morning I have my cup of coffee despite being told I’m acidic.
Or that at least every week I go try different coffee shops and order an espresso with less milk.
Really? Am I a coffee addict?

I mean…

Who can say no to the aroma soothing your nostrils   and leave you
                                                                ­                 craving
There in your table sits your very own cup, waiting
to be kissed from its very seductive rim, parting
            your thrilled lips, burning
            your yearning tongue, providing
your soul the bittersweet taste of the coffee you love
And as you sip that blessed liquid
                           Like lightning it electrifies you over your taste buds
                                                                ­                              to your throat
down
             to your chest then back up switching on every nerve in your brain.
You bathe in that wonderful kick of caffeine.
And you just can’t help but close your eyes and enjoy this hot bath from a long cold rainy day.
Listening to the every chemical reaction
feeling that sublime sensation
now creeping into every part of your body
telling you
                     that you are no longer your own property.
Then you suddenly get reminded of the last time you had your coffee.                               The abnormal beating of your heart
the fireworks in your head
           the ringing in your ears
                       the whispers of voices from your back
thezjdflksjcxkdjfghdisquiet of the night and
            how it left you gasping for breath
   drowning in the sea of your tears of regret.
It’s frightening.
But being scared makes you hear your present heartbeat, slowly, rushing
like it’s 8 in the morning
You’re alive.
It’s beating. You survived.
You savor this forbidden sensation for as long as it lasts.
                                                          ­               But nothing lasts forever.
When it starts to wear off, of course,
               it all comes back to the tongue.
Here comes “The Finish”.
Funny how acidity
is the strong point of coffee
but a weak point of you.
Cold sweat runs through your back
and a sharp burning feeling starts in your stomach.
Your tongue                      touching the ceiling of your mouth
                  is now starting to burn an unpleasant, undesirable sharpness,
over-fermented bitterness.
The bittersweet becomes            just the bitter.
You open your mouth like puffing out cigarette smoke
breathe out               deeply and slowly
your tongue searching every corner of your mouth
trace the lining of your gums
               desperate
for that elusive sweetness
that once filled you with     happiness.
In despair you’re left with nothing      but the bitter aftertaste.
Like a whistle of the kettle that tells you the water is boiling
The reminder that you had coffee.
Had.
For a moment you want to cry—why can’t you just cry—but if they tell you not to cry over spilled coffee then
         more reasons they’ll tell you not to cry from drinking coffee
Because who cries over coffee and why would you cry from drinking coffee?
You ask yourself
        left with two answers:
You’d cry because it’s bad,
           or you’d cry because you once had something so good.
Almost.
See even the most natural task on Earth like drinking coffee gives difficult life choices, too.
But before you lose your mind thinking about
The aftertaste,
        your breath,
        your heart,
        the whistle,
        the bittersweet,
the bitter,
               the sweet,
  the aftertaste,    the bitter,
the…
You feel the cup between your hands
            warm and welcoming.
A faint light from this darkness
has started to devour the blackness.
And you open your eyes.
You no longer hear the whistle of the kettle nor the rushed beat of your heart.
Even the bitter taste in your tongue felt like it’s been there right from the start
And you just no longer care of the aftertaste that takes ages to depart.
You look at your cup with your loving doe eyes.
You’re ready to take in another sip of your coffee
not minding the aftertaste                      of that same unrequited love.

Each sorrow is the child of a happiness
you thought would never end;
Every happiness is a sadness
I may not survive—
a brilliant October day
lying back in dock hammock suspended
quoting bits of Rilke and starlight anthems
the shadows cast by buildings and frogs
ink drawings made on August nights
by our beautiful chain-smoking artistette
admiring a giant spider friend who’d
spun her majestic web and vanished
while we were swimming
backdrop of bay and boys and cherries
creaky boardwalks under bare feet
and stickiest pine and sand darkness
photos over wing clouds below
creepy call to prayer from ancient Mosque
at twilight punctuating strange dreams
perfect reconciliation on hotel balcony
McDonald’s after soaring from Black Sea
to Bosporus Straight, edge of Asia
visible on the horizon and all of life
a nightmare from which I can’t get woke
terrorized by ***** donor bonesaws
homophobic maternal afternoon rejection
peace that passeth no understanding
when you’re a ******* genius or just
a few points lower sorry never enough
compassion leaking through pores
drawn out by steam more darkness
Eucalyptus perfumed
another flaccid experience on a stranger’s
bed recalling Hippocrates on the drive
away after more bad ***
shots of sauces and grilled roasted
poached lentils bespoke chickens finery
malodorous wafts limestone smoothed
by centuries of acidity oily tourist touches
but they’re in Mexico Australia India
we’re back at home twins calling
each day an error of time rounded off
the incorrigible quark refusing
to cooperate with Einstein choosing its
own entangled path and lighting fools
what beautiful skyline
what amazing celebrity capture
what nostalgic group assemblage
what **** cute puppy who’s no more pup
what swanky tailored look
what smiles what smiles what seriousness
the soft and supple features curves lines
practiced looks and wayward hairs
a simple flourishing according to the lens
so much that skin conceals and eyes
beer garden sidewalk orations
wedding after party for April fools
we were who dance grabbing rings
swinging wildly discussing the vulgarities
of gastronomy and digestion
tumbling into diners midnight offices
brick lined streets magical talks
demonstrations and ideas unbounded
carving pumpkins into likable politicians
we think are statesmen and wailing
when she loses winning a trophy case
buckling under weight of moral victory
the thought of skyscrapers lit
shining under heaven unsubtle insinuation
we’re better than all this nonsense
and stronger having raised this glass
and steel by our own hands, our parents
rather now maybe that’s confusion
erecting higher stairwells to escape
encroaching seas and bums below
all memory all happy every laugh
each rumination on the hours
kisses cocktails cuddles laughter
that perfect vest completed outfit
those thrift store jeans that shirt
that secondhand one speed bike
those lunches with the priest
those brunches with the students
those happy hours with the coworkers
those dinners with the beard
all interchangeable parts in show
theater of recollection one subway car
one taxi ride one bus to NY or DC
one flight to Seattle or Vegas
or some Floridian seascape, mansion
each cog or bit like paper currency
imbued with no value but buying
the totality of lived experience
from which to draw upon in sad elsewhere
—but they cut deep, well meaning though
whenever was now isn’t and can is blind
to what day will ever be when I can say
in truth now sadness isn’t.

He belches verses of prayer
from the acidity of his gut,
staggering upright
on two toddler feet,
he trails drunkenly
to the fridge,
scarce with only a few dented beers,
a bucketful of ice to feed him,
till the next scroungers pay-check is due.

Cracking open a frozen one,
it hisses a warrior's cry,
loud in the stillness
then dies swiftly,
as he raises the carcass to his split lip
swilling alcoholic entrails
round him gums.

Wincing slightly,
the beer half-empty in his hand,
he twitches a pink eye
in pain
as something rolls
around his jaw,
the made-of-man pinball stage
has begun a game
without him.


Gathering his saliva
into a hard bullet,
he spits the foreign object
onto splintered floorboards,
where his last tooth lands,
a final casualty
of his handsome youth.

If I was a coffee drinker
I’d balance your body like a rosetta
I’d kiss your cheek with my
Colombian coffee breath
the flavor of our love like
your crema on my tongue-
notes of rich chocolate evenings
and salty, very salty
your bitterness like the very first time
notes of my coffee cherry-
no, your coffee cherry
the aftertaste like high acidity
your complexity gets lost on
my caffeine intolerance
but I still feel your finish
each time I swallow
I still find notes of you,
cupping me

Stupid mouth.
Shut it.
Tame my tongue.
Pure acid. Vapid from my lungs.
It cuts.
It stings.
Stings my soul.

The very thing I wish to cut.
The very thing I yearn to bleed.
Is my own.
My hands.
My feet.
My ears.
My nose.
My guts.
My guts...
My very core.

Tear my heart.
My acidity has made me numb.
Vile fluid flows in my veins.
Pray I should bleed.
Drained.
That love for my own be filled.

the pH in my stomach has plummeted
to an all time low. as a defense mechanism,
my stomach clenches.
2. my jaw is extremely sore from grinding
my teeth while i was sleeping (and having
the regular nightmares.)
3. sometimes, my joints decide to act like they
are eighty years old instead of twenty.
4. that's what i get for burying the acidity of
the self loathing.
5. now i am a pinata except i'm hallow.

To make wine,
Grapes are crushed then poured into fermentation tanks.
Once fermentation begins, the grape skins are pushed to the surface by carbon dioxide gases released in the fermentation process.

I am the only fruit who has the necessary acids to make natural, stable wine.
My tannins add a bitterness and astringency,
But I must be picked at the right time.
My acidity and sweetness must be zen in balance.
The right ones are sorted through, but not all of us make the cut.
Unable to be served as sweet wine, too bitter.
Some more sweet, not bitter enough.
Simply picked at the wrong time, their peak unwanted, forgotten.

After being sorted we are destemmed and crushed.
Our roots ripped from us, dignity stomped upon.
For years, it was done manually, by foot.
Now, preformed mechanically, systematically.
But hey!
"Mechanical pressing has brought tremendous sanitary gains as well as increased the longevity and quality of wine."

Grape abuse continues, white wine grapes are quickly crushed.
Why do you ask?
To keep unwanted "color" from leeching into the wine.
But red wine,
Red wine is left in contact with it's skin, forced to acquire more color, more flavor and additional tannins.

After being sorted and crushed, I naturally ferment with in six to twelve hours.
This continues until all my sugar,
Is converted to alcohol.
To produce dry, wine.

The final stage is aging.
I am bottled with a cork,
Put on a shelf.
And ironically,
await my optimal fruitfulness.

A Solemn girl, in a red faded hoodie,
Sits outside the door of her classroom.
Crying by the hasty tapping of her foot,
Her head hangs low enough to kiss the ground
Her tongue as a net, fights to capture
Oxygen streaming the air.
But it descends a heavy weight
Into the core of her stomach,
Where the last of her exuberance
Awaits a dismal death of acidity.
Sentences habituate themselves
In the dark spaces between icy eyes.
Relentlessly reminding her ears of the reasons
Why she will never be like all the other
Fluffy cotton clouds
In the immeasurable crystal sky
Why she doesn’t gracefully float
With them, in packs of cloudy friendships.
What she cannot see,
Is the reason she cannot be a cloud,
Is because she is destined one day
To become the sun.

Sick fluttering sullen imagination, I can call you a safe house no more,
You are a diseased heart, acidity burned into your beating flesh,
Tears heard as screams, from the mouths of tortured smiles grasping at the air,
As a sun, set still with jazzy oranges flying in every direction,
You are so still, but move as the twitches, of a silent shock treatment gone wrong,
Tick tock, I can not hear the time pass by, thunderstorms without rain, full of crimson fog,
With this electricity in my veins, I wonder if this is blood I hear, or acid and tar,
My legs move as weights upon tongues that can not speak truthful words, awake but so slowly asleep,
Burning and left black as night, the dripping blood of these eyes that have been open too long,
I am tied down to a chair where I see the same image upon every view, the lips that whisper,
These lips sting a sour poison to see the side of my ears, and tighten ropes,
My neck screeches, hands as squirming spiders flee but squish into armrests that are nothing but pain itself,
Dreams drift, not as monarch butterflies, but as insects upon a corpse, my lingering joy rots into the air,
This reality is but a nightmare, nothing as the films with kissed upon cheeks and moments with eyes that smile,
Grins that open wide through cheekbones and lips a light with amorous memories stained upon them,
What do I trust, the dreams with my mind open, or the reality with my eyes open, eyelashes scratching against me,
There is an itch upon the words, like matches that ignite these terror filled moments, an ivy twisted itch,
I fall into a hope, as deep as the warmth beneath the earth, a wish to keep sleeping,
To be dragged into an eternal heat of dreams that seem more normal than mobid reality, a sense of normalcy,
Sweat surrounds me, I am coated with a layer of fear, swung up against reality, awakened from a night terror,
Am I back, back to see and hear kind voices through unfaltered velvet lips, am I here again, not in paradise,
But am I back, to hear the touch upon my skin, the scratch of teeth tenderly with whispers of sunlit joy,
Here again, not paradise, but not a kin to hell, let me stay, and not fall my eyelids shut again,
Please, I could beg you, I live for these sights, of lilac, rose, and gladness, breaths sweet with candied wind,
Help keep these eyelashes from meeting and staying together, strangle this ungodly imagination, keep it from sleep, keep it awake, and don't let it breathe.

She was the girl constantly being thrown lemons
Expected to make lemonade over and over, she did
Growing used to the sour taste of what she had come to know as her reality
A child’s innocence
She danced through thunderstorms
Twirling through the rain like she twirled through her life
Graceful leaps of laughter sending her in circles, growing dizzy
Only to find that by the time her dizziness had faded nothing was ever the same
Tangy lemonade had returned
Gulping it down along with her insecurities, she kept dancing but the bitter sense of having to grow up so fast hit her like a bolt of lightning she had once danced upon
And finally the thunderstorms grew too strong for her
The downpour that once sent her soaring soaked into her shoes
Damp and despair into her bones
Where once she would have floated over the world she dragged her feet to safety
She’d now watch the droplets of rain hit the window pain
Struggle after struggle
Lemon after lemon
She was left with nothing but the compromise of happiness
The acidity left her melting
Draining the juice from her slowly until she was just a little dusting of zest thrown on top of what used to be her childhood
Her days of dancing but a bare memory
And the girl she used to know had since disappeared
Lost hopes she tucked herself away
Her only idea of dreams locked away in her dream book next to her bed
Frantic scribbles on each page
She wrote her feelings as her old friend Thunder cracked over head
Her faint remembrance of happiness
But a sound
A raindrop
A window away
She blocked her ears now
Willing the constant bang of her Thunder to stop
Couldn’t it tell it only caused her more pain?
Persisting past her pleads; it rang out louder and louder
Taunting her
Haunting her
It yelled at her
And for the first time since the lemons had been thrown her way
She yelled back
Breaking that window open
Broken glass like all her old broken hopes hit the ground
She jumped outside
Enveloped by dazzling drops of clarity and surprise
For her shoes were no longer wet and her bones no longer heavy
And the weight of the storm no longer pinned her soul down
Her lost peace now found
She danced
A dance for all the dances she had forgotten
A dance that left the ground trembling and the skies flickering in her wake
This girl who had been thrown lemons without rest
Had figured out the answer to the test
Finally understanding that she was never too weak to conquer the storm
She was as strong and as fierce as the winds around her
As gentle as a raindrop hitting an eyelash but as grand as a flood covering land as far as the eye could see
No longer would she compromise her happiness
Her dreams
Herself
For now she knew that happiness was for her taking and hers alone
That girl now knew that the next time life through her a lemon
She’d throw it back
And yell
“I am no longer bitter lemonade”
“I am a thunderstorm”

For my best friend who is beautiful, smart and the strongest girl I know, even if she forgets it sometimes.

Restless leg syndrome
A hindrance on my being
Retching foam dribbles out
the side of my mouth
South it goes, down
to the ground.

Wound tight with salvia my
self-hatred flows in unity with it
The acidity of the bite bursts to flames
as the earth hits it

Worth every penny, I chuckle as
I chuck a bottle of pills into the
billfold of my coat.

"Won't this hurt?"
That's the point.
Right, back to the top

Restless leg syndrome
Catching on?
My mind can't contain one thought at a time
I spin on a dime, fine dining is the drug of
the millennial nines.
Hi! I'm super high today.

Just kidding, I'll never smoke ****
see me judging you in the corner?
I'm a straight laced, even paced
large tempered feminist *****.
Pitch me your best rich boy pitch
to get a date and maybe I won't chuck
your ***** into a ditch.

Hitch a ride down the road
Follow it now, down it goes!
Drop out quick!
Here comes the gun
run from it fast, till you reach the sun

Worship me or hate me, I don't really care.
Stare at me until you see who you wish
I actually was

t'was a sad story I read
when I found out you would be dead
by nine o'clock this evening

Did I tell you I plotted this reaping?
I peep in on your life from time to time
Crime is the center of my kind
Find me in the dark deep corners of
your mind, I'm always there
Seeing and watching but never debauching.

Have I mentioned I suffer from
restless leg syndrome?
It really is a hindrance on my being.

"Won't this hurt?", you ask
That's the point.
Right, back to the top

Head pain and ugly,
World movement too,
The insatiable slug thee,
Manifests between two.

Lounge lay and eat,
The extent of the life,
Scrounge play and bleat,
You're not the only one,
So revel in this life,
A resplendent underclass,
Make bankers and beauracrats,
Pay it through the
Glass ?

Is one proud of this half life one lives ?
Radiation dwindling in 30 to 10,
To be in rain with freedom to squat,
Looking in strangers for compassion,
When all you deserve,
Is a sound good lashing.

Hide away from your responsibility,
No entry on response,
Forgotten all ability,
Ability all lost,
Based on  acidity.

Face all edited,
The preservation of youth did not preserve your face,
The resignation of you,
Did not delay fate

Masculinum Hyppeastrum,
monstrum;
the man eating
botanica,
the endlessly flowering plant,
had enough of me.

Went to sleep,
or worse,
he perished.

I must have said something nasty
about his size;
doesn't flower anymore,
all dried out,
doesn't do a thing,
his onion is weeping.

Christmas roses,
as I call the girls,
lost the will
to live.

All my,
previously green, flora
is pointing her leafless finger
at me.

I've done nothing,
that's the problem.
I forgot all about my green plants;

the environment is wrong,
there is too much acidity,
and that's my fault.

I will search
under the garden snow
for snow drops,
I left to themselves
two years
February,
my snow tears.

For colour,
I have lemons and limes,
green and yellow;
sitting on a traditionally,
blue, hand-painted
Chinese china platter.

River Yangtze
is still running through my mind.
Chai,

Lemon tea and lemonade.

~
Author Notes
Flowering plants from Bahia : Hyppeastrum sp.
From the 1970s, many plant novelties from Bahia
came to light with the expeditions carried out
by Howard Irwin and collaborators
of NYBG (USA) and by Raymond Harley
from RBG-Kew (UK). This provoked a renewal
of interest, among botanists, in the flora of Bahia

(3-1-07)

“I’ve become lost in the cross hairs of love and lust.”
His line of thought became stagnant with no one to watch,
spellbound by her snare looking for someone to care,
her words would trimmer proving to much to bare—
“it’s just not the same, in the way that i love you,
something doesn’t remain.”
A sword breeched his heart that day,
vessel went off course filling with black waters of spite,
lines became blurred, compass askew,
naive conceptions of a roadmap wouldn’t do.
“Rain washed away our chalk, it’s not all lost”
this thought’s become seared,
simmering in his mind until the time would come.
I can’t talk of the grilling in our prince’s kingdom,
except that the tyrannical king, made hell his home.
Acidity was palpable, yet still he continued,
never ceasing words kept him through—
“but I do love you” until the fat lady’s tune,
sulking in the nostalgia of her swoons.
He continued to praise her more than the moon
thanks the sun, for illuminating it’s room,
in the sky, and the stars scream out cries,
for the mangled prince lays waiting only for her shine;
however the lyrics must stop, at some point,
the fat ladies pitch will drop,
until the nightingales love song stops.
Scared to be hurt once again,
a vow has been made that no more friends will be lost,
or bring pain, but this came at a cost.
Drowned by sorrow he knew only one way to manage,
cut everyone out because they can do damage.
Reclusive, seclusive, he shut out all,
friends’ unaware, the ball couldn’t have dropped further;
ashamed, self-disdained the thought feels like ******.
What of the piper that doesn’t pipe?—As grim as tales come,
stuck between a gloc and a hard bane.
“Baring may be impossible” he said to cold steel,
heavier than expected, ice-like to his lips,
sitting against the wall, with a cumbersome grip.
Last text sent “Take care of everyone for me, you’re now the guardian.”
Panic set in friends, but it was all to late to heed.
Until the end comes, he looks into the cosmos of his mind,
and lastly to her shrine; final thoughts unknown,
except to the wall and rug bellow
but here I’ve presumed— “I will love you forever”
trigger pulled, death concludes.
RIP- Clay

I beg you,
Do not make this out to be a love note;
Do not romanticise my words
     until a list of all that is wrong with you
          becomes a letter in a bottle, washed up on an island’s shore.
Do not teach the child I will never have
     that the locked wooden box of dated but unsent letters hidden beneath her bed
          will one day become a novel.
They are all addressed to you--
   just as every thought I think echoes with your name
              every song is about you
              every tear burns my skin with the acidity of your touch
         the smoke from
              every cigarette tastes of you.
It is you.
It is you
             who is the black mist enveloping my lungs from the inside out,
It is you
             swirling in my hollow veins
                as they wrap themselves like chains
                   around my organs, screaming for night,
and you capture my beating heart.


And it is you
     who tells us to teach our children
                         to make sure to say their pleases and their thank-yous,
And we taught them not to talk to strangers,
  but we never taught them to say
                                                      ‘no’. --
Now I don’t speak to the kids hanging out on the corner
And I don’t speak to the man when he pulls up his van,
And now I don’t speak
                                  when I'm lying in bed
you never taught me to say no
I don’t speak when your hand runs down my body
          like I am something you own
          like my bones are the ivory keys of a grand piano
               and you must hit every note on your glissando
descending
   to
hell.



I don’t speak as you wrap yourself around me
metal chains on a summer’s day
I close my eyes
            and listen to my organs screaming for night
                   like a child who just wants her bedtime story,
                                                          ­   her mummy to come home,
                   like a child who is not afraid
                               of monsters in her head,
                          or of monsters under the bed,
                          or of you,
Lying
     beside her.


And we scream for night
   And we close our eyes
      And we float up into a moonless sky.
The definition of a black hole is
               ‘a region of space having a gravitational field so intense that no matter or radiation can
                escape’.
If it is the matter that creates the pull that traps the matter,
   then you are not so much in me
         and I am not so much in you
               as we are trapped inside each other.
The world made up of people and
      people made up of world,
                                          like Romeo and Juliet,
      we do not exist without the other,
                                          you and I.


For the words
           immorality and immortality
                                            may be frighteningly similar, but there is a difference between
                 apathy and anaesthesia;
I do not close my eyes to shut you out,
           I close my eyes because it is only darkness that can make the space between my bedroom walls appear infinite;
           It is only music that lets me hear your screams as you suffocate mine;
                  only smoke that lets me taste your toxicity as my ashes spread like a virus through your veins.


I want to die.
And I'm taking you down with me,
   So don’t you dare tell me to teach the child I will never have
      that her scars seek attention,
         or that she needs them as proof of what you have done to her mind;
   Don’t you dare teach us that the rope from which we hang is a diamond necklace;
          that corpses are more beautiful when drained of blood,
             that we are more beautiful when broken.


Dear world,
   I beg you,
Do not make this out to be a love note;
Do not romanticise my words
     until a list of all that is wrong with you
          becomes a letter in a bottle, washed up on an island’s shore.
Do not teach me that my suicide note is poetry
     when our existence is intertwined
          and my death is yours,
          and you are too cowardly to do it for the both of us,
  but, darling,
                    so am I.
So please,
   I beg you,
You can make this out to be a love note,
                                             a letter in a bottle,
   just close your eyes;
      float up into a moonless sky;
         dissolve into infinity.
                                            Die with me--.
                                                           ­                                                       *j.s.

The moment he rejected you the first time
I saw a little part of you break
like the icicles in your eyes were melted with a self destructive hate fire
burning dangerously with the unrequited desire
for his love.
I want to tell you you're perfect.
On the times he moved closer to you at the lunch table
I saw the way your body stiffened
I could see the mental checklist being ticked
making sure you had the grocery list of the things that you wanted
the things you thought he needed.
I want to tell you you're perfect.
He fluttered your heart with his smile
making you realize that this spell he put you under isn't temporary
no matter how many times he knocks you down
you'll always go back for more.
I want to tell you you don't need him.
Where other girls want to undress him with their eyes
to see the chiseled swimmers body armor created from
years of waking up before sunlight
all you want is to strip the armor from his skin
to see if what lies underneath the charm
is really as soft and sweet as it is in your dreams.
I want to tell you he doesn't matter.
The day he asked out another girl in front of you
you tell me you need a friend
you say you don't even know how to stop crying
you say it hurt so bad
choking back tears is causing you to choke out that it's killing you
and it just kills me when you say that you feel so pointless
but you're infinitely perfect to me
so I make sure that you know how pointless he is too
and that if he can't even see through his glasses to realize how beautiful you are
then he might as well be as blind as a bat.
I want to tell you you're perfect.
even though you say your importance can be rationed out in teaspoons
I tell you that no amount of measuring cups could ever measure how much you mean to me
I want to tell you that your shine is like the one light in powerless city
gifting those in the dark with the wonders of your intelligence
and with the beauty of the way in which you look at the world
I want you to know that you're perfect.
I want to tell you I'm sorry.
I'm sorry for not noticing all the times that your lip was white beneath your teeth
or the way your eyes stung from the acidity of rejection
causing tears to form around the red insides of your eyelids
I'm sorry I wasn't there to wipe those tears off your face like I always promised I'd be.
I'm sorry for the time that you had to ask for me to listen
because the invisible rules written by love
in the book of friendship in my mind
say that you shouldn't have to ask for me to uncover my ears
they should always be open
and so should my arms
because that's what friends are for.
I want  to tell you you're perfect.
I want to tell you I'm sorry.
I want you to know that putting layers of make up on your face
makes him fall in love with a copy of every unoriginal
girl he's ever dated but you
my friend
you are not a copy
you are not unoriginal
you are a story
you are amazing
and you should never let your self feel like any less.

When you think of touristy locales, Italy is at the top of the list,
Picking a specific place at random would be wise to desist,
The options are so many that one is spoilt for choice,
But at the end of it all, it is a matter to rejoice

Overlooking the sunny Amalfi Coast, Positano boasts of a picturesque landscape,
Colorful, cliffside villas beckon visitors wanting to experience the "great escape",
The sophisticated resort town is the jewel of southern Italy's iconic Amalfi Coast,
The spectacular setting of this vertical town is so enchanting that it deserves a toast

Positano is just a forty minute ferry ride from neighboring town Sorrento,
The sound of waves crashing against the pebbled shores is sheer gusto,
Not surprising that Positano translated means a "place to stop",
The visual dramatic vertical panorama of colors serves the perfect backdrop

Seen from the sea, Positano projects a stunning color combo that is visually transcendent,
The unmissable green of the Monti Lattari mountain range appears so gloriously resplendent,
The white, pink and yellow of the cascading Mediterranean houses have a vertiginous effect,
The blue of the sea and the silvery grey of the pebble beaches provide the surreal connect

The imposing, colorful majolica-tiled dome of the Church of Santa Maria Assunta is iconic,
A testament to Positano's beauty and history, seeing it's revered architectural work is euphoric,
A Byzantine-inspired icon of the ****** Mary can be seen in the church's interior,
It is popular for exchanging wedding vows, with an impressive belltower on the exterior

Positano's waterfront is the Spiaggia Grande pristine beach whose grandoise is no empty boast,
Spanning in excess of three hundred meters, it is one of the largest in the Amalfi Coast,
Reputed for it's ever crowded sandy shores and a postcard-worthy view that is breathtakingly intense,
As visitors chill out in umbrella-shaded lounge chairs, savoring an unforgettable experience

Access to downtown involves climbing steps, steep winding walkways and narrow streets,
Trendy fashion brands on display in numerous cute clothing boutiques are a visual treat,
Art galleries, souvenir shops and ceramicware shops abound every step of the way,
One cannot but pause and admire the various artisans' intricate works that hold sway

Handmade leather sandals, customized and readily crafted to perfection is an authentic Positano experience,
Rows and rows of designer clothing shops convey local artisans' innovative ways of wielding purchasing influence,
Limoncello liquer made with Amalfi Coast lemons is a Positano specialty that absolutely must be tasted,
That it is the second most popular liquer in Italy (after Campari) and made from neutral alcohol cannot be understated

Amalfi lemons are very sweet, prized for their low acidity and delicate flavor,
Used for making jams, sorbettos, preserves and various desserts to savor,
Campania cuisine have a generous dose of flavoring with Amalfi lemon juice or zest,
Visitors thronging local restaurants are treated to delicacies that are some of the best

Positano's countless romantic restaurants serve a plethora of seafood offerings and local specialties,
Barilotto is an unique cheese that is subtly sweet with creamy and mild flavors, sans any trivialities,
The cheese aromas are delicate, fresh and buttery with a hard, smooth and firm texture offering,
Made from water buffalo's milk by heating the whey & aged for at least forty days, before becoming a serving

The memories of this picturesque town linger long after the visit is done,
As you tick off another scenic Italian locale that has hearts to be won,
Images of the colorful setting (s) remain hard to erase from the mind,
As you set about planning the next adventure, leaving this one behind

The shock and pop of thunder,
rain drops,
rolling down smooth skin like
peals of thunder,
broken lightning streaking through the sunshine.
Polarity bringing a smile to my face,
even while acidity burned and scrunched my face to conceal my eyes,
the swirl of twigs in puddling holes in the driveway making me
ponder,
soaked,
getting up to hear the sploosh and feel the wave of a full gutter.
To look at the leaves stuck between my toes.
Breezes raising goosebumps and giggles.
hair dripping and clinging,
eyelashes catching drops upon drops.
Light reflected off car windows and tree leaves,
gusts of wind causing intermittent rain
fall,
crack,
shudder,
I whip my hair
back and forth,
and wipe the water from my face.
I am the sky's lover, and it is mine.