Lonesome misty Monday mornings
watch me gaze upon the swells
where the divers reach for rescue
over, under, paddling out..

Yellows, blues, and grays - so cloudy
gentle clings and hopeful sobs
Boaters bobbing, drifting; unsure
of their worthless, urgent trust.

Bring me freedom from this grieving,
save me from this endless doubt;
wave to me in sweet surrender.
Hug me goodbye

These tears...
...fade out

When the sun arises,
And the birds perform their melody,
The world awakens, the earth is open,
Everything in sight is free.

It grabs you very hesitant,
As it clings to you for life,
For earth is strong, and beauty stronger,
Cuts deep down like a knife.

The reality will pull you in,
No doubt you'll catch a glance,
What has become all around us?
It's not the same old song and dance.

Keep your eyes wide open,
Heart and spirit held up high,
earth is not what we make it seem,
It's more than just what meets the eye.

My family's problem is -
well ****. There's a list.
It's been in my head for years now,
so let's get it over with.

My mother's problem is,
she's a good-for-nothing alcoholic.
We've all tried to get her to stop it,
but there's nothing we can do about it.

My father's problem is,
he's too ******* nice.
He believes in the sanctity of marriage.
He still loves his wife.

My older sister's problem is,
she wants nothing more than to be normal,
but she has no idea what that means.
She takes all her cues from commercials.

My brother's problem is
a Christopher Columbus complex.
If he didn't discover it first,
then he could care less.

My younger sister has problems too.
The last born into this mess.
She has no idea what to do.
She still tries her best.

My problem is,
I think too **** much.
Spent my whole life trying to escape it.
Now I'm way out-of-touch.

My grandma's problem is,
she did everything right.
Never smoked a cigarette.
Never had a drink in her whole life.
My gram's problem is,
that despite all her grace,
she's still losing her mind.
She doesn't even recognize my face.

My older sister's problem is,
that she's so ****** condescending.
As if she's got it figured out,
but we know she's just pretending.

My brother's problem is,
he thinks that he's the ****.
If you're not doing like he's doing,
then he can't handle it.

My father's problem is,
he tries his best to "Let It Be,"
but through his words and actions,
it's clear that he's angry.

My problem is
that I'm too self-absorbed.
Quietly observing in order to find a way
to put it into words.

My little sister's problem is,
she still believes she's a princess.
After getting a good look at the kingdom,
she realized it's something she'd rather not possess.

My family's problem is,
we're all a bit over-stressed.
They're all too embarrassed by it,
so I'll be the one to confess.

My problem is,
I'm an instigator.
Chalk it up to my love for drama.
It's no wonder I'm an English major.

My brother's problem is,
he thinks that we still hate him.
The villain of our childhood.
He can't accept being forgiven.

My older sister's problem is,
she only wants the best for us.
The first to deal with dear mother,
she knows it can be rough.

My father's problem is,
he believes he has to be tough.
That he alone can hold it all together,
but we know he's had enough.

My younger sister's problem is,
she's too ******* sweet.
She knows this family will ruin her,
so she clings to any form of release.
She's invariably bound to lose it,
so she does so all the more desperately.

My family has problems.
Clearly, it's plain to see.
I love them anyway,
and I'll try my best to share our story.
I feel it's my destiny.

My mother's problem is,
that we blame her for all of our problems,
and despite all of our insistences,
she makes no attempt to solve them.

Nothing will end this, this ever-ending pain, this knife in my chest, it won't go, it will only dig deeper, it's determind to stay, it's hiding, waiting, hiding away.
Nothing will break this, this emptyness I feel, trying to work out what is and what isn't, trying to stay alive, just survive, trying to find the light, trying to figure out what is good, what is real.
I tried.
I did.
I promise I tried to succeed.
But all that I try, all that I do, all that I am, is not good enough, this thing, it won't leave.
Like a scent it clings, sinks into my skin,
just waiting, waiting, waiting, until I give up, until i give in.

I think to myself, long and hard, should I give in? I think that i should,
but then they win, the fear wins, and I lose, I lose to my fears and they laugh and cheer, at my failed attempt to live my life, live life in the clear.
The past won't let go, won't let go of me, it has me captive, I can no longer see, see anything, anything that is good for me, anything that will help me be, and the darkness, oh the darkness, it's waiting to pounce, when i'm nearly out of hope, nearly on the ground, then it will take me, it will take me , it will take me down, and the silence will drown, I will drown, in the silence until i'm out.

But what if I manage to see the light?
What if I can win?
what if I don't lose this fight?
what if I don't give up?
what if I don't give in?

If I win, I will tell you,
then we can laugh at the darkness as I live on through,
we can be the ones who survived,
who survived at the worste of times.

I will win.
I will survive.

does long-sought summer simmer
more with yearning?
should not a reckless desire unbound
plead for unlearning?
does not a whisper of a breeze upon a scorched blacktop race
through the stillness of youth,
fickly departing without a trace?

these things shall pass, only while they're good
as the expanse of outside
accelerates beyond youth's neighborhood
and a last enduring moment clings
for dear life as it darts between
time and space upon nostalgia's wings.

it is only after the last drop of lunar luster
upon the chilled earth dissipates
that rich amber rays sprawl from a horizon
such that the night falls and dawn breaks

and so should not the end of one story
plead for another to awaken from slumber?
as one smile fades should there not be
another to turn back the first day of summer?

Now I've grown,
Yes, summer was that smile.

Apprehension clings like a leech
Forcing me to watch my words and actions
Im tirelessly stuck second guessing myself
"Will this be the straw that
Breaks the camels back?"
I miss when things were normal
But normal was lost overseas
Blind rage and helpless depression
All silently suffered

"He's young now." I look into the mirror. "He'll grow on you."

"He's learning. Unwise in his few years, low in confidence."

I ponder..." Will he always be so...scrappy?"

Here stands a young man, looking in the mirror. Still baffled at the reflection he sees.

There goes a woman, his mother, still determined to have a youngest daughter.

People say "He's changing, look in the mirror...see for yourself."

What I see is a scared young man....

scared to live, scared to take up space, scared to make a sound in the noise of society's never ending chaos.

She's trying...she says. To understand. To support. To move on. She knows not her faults nor the effect her words have on you...she only knows that one day her daughter stopped wearing dresses, cut her hair, and left a life of pink and pageantry behind.

No, she doesn't know what she does, but she can see the light in your eyes began to dim when she calls you her little girl.

His father....slowly decaying, pushes the ideas of a son out of his mind. Refuses to see the beard and changing physique in front of him, clings desperately like a moth to a flame to his little girl who he swears never grew a day past the age of five.

Back when things were simple. Back when there wasn't so much **** change. Back when things mattered less about pronouns and more about peace of mind and reputation.

When I grow up, I want to be the change that I wish I saw in all of you. I want to embrace who I love with open arms, decide that I'd **** for the man I see in the mirror. Let all those who disapprove be ******.

Because if I couldn't protect the light in that little girls eyes so many years ago, I'll be **** sure that the man I become is one who will protect mine.

I shot myself in the stomach with the memory of you telling me all about Guardians of the Galaxy when I saw the broken DVD case sitting on my counter next to a coffee ring I forgot to wipe up this morning.
My lip is bitten through and through with memories that shake my head because they're too loud and bright to stick inside and they need to be out and breathe.
But I try so hard to keep my buttons closed all day, try so hard to hold myself together but I'm a puzzle with a missing piece and sometimes that shows up when people take away the coaster I put over my left corner and wonder where the tip of the sail is and I have to tell them I lost it years ago.
But you always ******* hated puzzles, and loved ******* puzzles like me who would give you anything you asked for because back then I had all my pieces and a syrupy desire to be yours and yours only forever, sipping on coffee with too-much cream in the early morning hours, wrapped in you, with your heartbeat singing familiar patterns in my ear.
And my birthday's in two weeks but all I feel is a narrow candle of hope in the back of my mind that maybe you'll think to call, maybe I'll open my doors to find you with a smile and a can of whipped cream, and even Reese's peanut butter cups (my favorite but the irony always was you had a peanut allergy.)
For now my bed is too small to hold all these memories, but, honey, it always had room for you. My mind clings to song lyrics, oxygen, because they hint that someone someday felt what I feel now, what I have felt for months. The snow globe you gave me that one time is broken in shards of everything you promised me and our last kiss, and it lays on my bedroom floor in case you ever come back and I have reason to piece it back together.
But when I see you this Sunday for mass as usual, you won't know any of this.

When days pass in slow succession,
And the comings and goings are all repetition,
My mind wanders aimlessly to
All the days I had in a bygone youth.

How my sisters and I were mischief incarnate,
How the vilest words we uttered were “**** it!”
How the world seemed bigger when we were small
And how I believed I had a chance at it all.

Friends who came, went and never left.
Beloved pets whose death made us bereft.
Homes we helped to build with our own hands.
Times when we dwelt in far away lands.

But there is always a catch in the back of my throat;
A wish that my thoughts could fully quote
A man whose poem is so finely crafted,
I’m convinced it was never once redrafted.

For it catches by its words in near perfection
The very soundtrack to all this: my reflection.
This particular poem is quiet and mellow;
It was written by a Mr Henry Longfellow.

I write it now for you below
That you may enjoy its beauty also.

“The day is cold, and dark, and dreary;
It rains,and the wind is never weary;
The vine still clings to the mouldering wall,
But at every gust the dead leaves fall,
And the day is dark and dreary.

My life is cold, and dark, and dreary;
It rains,and the wind is never weary;
My thoughts still cling to the mouldering past,
But the hopes of youth fall thick in the blast,
And the days are dark and dreary.

Be still, sad heart, and cease repining;
Behind the clouds is the sun still shining;
Thy fate is the common fate of all,
Into each life some rain must fall,
Some days must be dark and dreary.”

i met you once
in a dream.
married for years
the pickpocket and
the traveling salesman.

fish rained down on our wedding day
and our friends released doves.
my dress was a million rose petals
and your tux dripped ink on the church's carpet.

we laughed and loved each other
chewing beeswax and
painting silly faces on our knees.
it was a lovely dream
drinking in the deepest love
and swimming through the cool waters
behind our little green house.

you told me you were afraid of the waking
i couldn't lie so i said
so do i.
we ran
but the alarm and the bright morning found us
i woke and you
were just a dream again.
no closer then a cloud.
a wish whose cologne
clings to my hair.

There's a cold Creole cry
that steeps from the underside of the moss
those thick recesses where, the water bridges tight to the banks
and even when the haunting moon fades upon its shades
there is always a cast of eerie chills that invade the frame.
The long lonely, half depressed, half unawakened  strolls
that never quite lead anywhere, yet always ends by the bank
where the water calls, these deep muddy swamps
that awaits in the hopes of a lost soul to enter
to step beyond the boundaries.
There is stew in these waters
a thick haze that fills and the scent it leaves
clings always upon the clothes, hugs so tight the breath, that
no matter how far one strays, it always calls one back.
Trees that have no roots, skeletons cloaked
hinged in the thick ivy moss that scatters from limb to limb
The cries, urgent, fearful, that echoes through the thick undergrowth
gathering in Voodoo curses the humid air to dance, dance
where the imagination clings and hides, Yet! Dares to know more.
It is a long walk, one, that time cannot gather nor hold
where the fields seem surreal to the charged air
and the night falls like lotus blossoms upon the water
to float away where tides to the Delta stray.

Alisdaire O'Caoimph

The rosin still clings
To my slackened strings
And my shine is all but gone.
Yet you found me;
There lying still and silent,
In my funerary garments
Of tattered velvet
and darkened oak.
You called to me,
Coaxing me back into being.
For yours is a labor of love;
I need you nearly as much
As you need me; Musician.

I was not trained for this—
no welcome packet, no handbook for gravity.
Just a name that clings like static
and a voice that trembles when spoken too clearly.

They asked me if I had room.
I said I had weather.
They asked me if I would disappear.
I said watch me smolder, and stay.

I have loved like a lighthouse
with no shoreline in sight,
signaling to anyone
who mistook reflection for return.

I’ve held their names
like breath under water,
carved pathways through others
just to find my own again.

But I do not sculpt.
I do not steal 'the good stuff'.
I inherit fire
and ask it if it remembers me.

If you see yourself in me,
look again—
I am not a mirror,
I am the window you opened
and forgot to close when the wind picked up.

Still, I arrive,
boots echoing in the hallway
of someone else’s myth,
offering only this:

I will not rewrite you.
I will not finish your sentences.
But I will stand here—
untranslated,
unsaved,
untouched by the need to be anything
other than true.

Do not lance your hair

Just to satisfy those men in suits,

Or your woman, sat there with that expectant gaze

Reserved for only you.



Let your image be cultivated

Through the culture of the downstroke.

The lazy thick steel on the neck of the guitar

That shudders at your touch

And responds with the readiness of one thousand ******

Cooing their broken sounded and false approvals.



I see your fingers fumble across the chipped mahogany

And I recall on the benefit of all men

The first and forgotten lovers,

Buried beneath years of clumsy ***

And vicious disregard.



And from the shadows in the archives of your grey matter

You remember every wince of self-doubt,

Etched across the faces of your women

That you never cared to notice in the dizzy ecstasy

Of your youthful wantonness

And the hardness of your ****.



So age will bite at your features,

And you will squint in the wind,

Cowering at the cold that clings to your bones.

At some age you will cut your hair

And iron your shirt.

Nurse your whiskey

And find yourself in receipt of all those women

Still tangled in the hotel sheets

In the back lodgings of your mind

And everything they did to shape you.



And you pick up that old acoustic

And play the tune of one thousands odes.

the scent of you still clings to my sheets
and feelings confuse me
my skype history is a long list of confessions but my biggest secrets are still buried within me
i feel sick
i wish i could purge on self-hatred
i'll dig out these secrets for the sake of this poem, or ramble, or whatever it is
core myself on sharp shards of broken hearts - i have plenty to choose from
more fuel to the fire, my ever-burning hatred for myself
when will it consume me?
i feel sick

confession no.1
i just ate all of the chocolate in the fridge so it wouldn't have to stare me in the face any longer
swallowed it down like its sweetness didn't make me feel bitter
and followed it with a bowl of cereal as a last hoorah for my oncoming diet

confession no.2
i'm **** at this poetry thing
or at least that's how i feel

i can't even be good at something i love
how could anyone expect me to be good at loving?

confession no.3
right now, i feel nothing but resentment and hatred for my mother
her snide comment about my commitment to my therapy made me want to break her neck

confession no.4
i'm incredibly blunt, which is probably why i **** at poetry
i also haven't gotten my anger issues in check
today, on the bus, i imagined shooting this racist woman's head repeatedly and i was angry that i couldn't make her bleed

confession no.5
it's raining outside and i don't feel any calmer
perhaps it's just too mild for me when i feel this stormy
biting back torrential tears like not crying will somehow make me a stronger hurricane
but
i'm still not good enough to blow anybody away

confession no.6
i feel sick in every sense of the word
i kind of want to die

The tear clings,
As the breath stings.
Cold and unnerving,
Alone and undeserving.
Lost beneath the tide,
Unable to hide.
The emotion that it brings.
Where do I run?
When there is no more sun.
Stolen by the enemy,
Nothing left to see.
All that is left is the shining moon,
Guiding and bringing hope,
To those that have lost all.

I perched today in the rain of autumn's late harvest,
Nothing, nothing, nothing but travesty,
Drop after drop after drop of a stone's weightless gravity,

Pain dripped and mixed with the dead grain,
pain milky cloudy purple and insane,
pain germinates across these polluted plains,

Her dread perfume still clings to me,
The bread of her soul still stings me,
Her infertile love is the acid inside of me,

In the depths of the dead winter's heart
there lies my tormented fleeting fearful hart,
For all eternity to be hunted by love's doomed dart.



©Rangzeb Hussain

The stars stare down from the heavens,
casting their judgmental glares
The heat of the night clings to my shirt,
making a drop of sweat,
send shivers down my spine.
An inhale of breath,
still sweet with summers smells,
Lights flicker in the distance.
Cities,
Homes,
Cars,
Wandering down the rocky path,
Sitting like we used to...
Memories strike with sudden vividness,
another night,
shared with her,
still smelling of summer,
hands wound tightly together,
lips sharing a soft touch.
Finding a place in the world,
even for a few minutes...
Trying to remember the beginning,
Avoid the ending...
Broken hearts,
Losing a girl,
Losing a friend,
Someone who understands...

Not feeling loss,
just lost.

it’s roughly 11:29pm and i have you roaming around in my mind, then again what else is new?
i can imagine you humming along to these tunes while you tangle your fingers in my already so easily tangled hair and i’d count the minutes you spend trying to untangle yourself from me - limbs and all while you’re at it
before you left you made it a point to tell me about how i was like the light of your day and maybe i just might have imagined the caffeine scent that hangs over every single word that spills out of your beautiful mouth in that ridiculous accent of yours.        you’re ridiculous, absolutely ridiculous.                                   i love the way you make shades of blue seem more vivd and i love the way it curves in to rest against my shoulders as i find inklings of you along the sleeves, almost as if you’re right here next to me. i’d fall asleep in an ocean with dreams as succulent as honey oozing from your lips, catching myself saying ‘good morning’ to a silhouette as i realise that i just may have left just enough space for you to slip your arms around my waist as you pull me close enough to rid the glass between our eyes

i’d like for that to happen again sometime, if you don’t mind and i’m sure you don’t judging by your sleepy murmurs that i manage to piece a ‘i wish you were laying here next to me’, out of when you dial me.

you asked me if i was angry at you, repeatedly, oddly enough you can’t help yourself on fridays. i brushed it off with a laugh and a roll of my eyes because you fail to realise that i could never stay angry at you because well, you make me feel so much more than that
[bullet train of emotions just rush into the gateway of my heart every time i lay my eyes on you]
anger is just my daily attire but you make me want to change into something new and that’s why i am so in love with you
so very
in love with you.

maybe i’ll tell you when you ask me if I’m mad at you some friday of a week.

new years day, only someone like you would plan something right out of a reality television show and i wouldn’t switch channels to be honest, your heartbeat on my left as you leaned in and i don’t remember if i shut my eyes when yours graced mine but it was my first time and i know i play the blind card to it but i remember what exactly it felt like and how my heart was jumping out of chest and how you were trembling right against me as i asked you to kiss me again
[its been a few months and i still hesitate at the thought of kissing you because i’m so afraid of tripping up somewhere but it doesn’t make me want it any less because sometimes i feel like your sugar laced sweet every things could spill into me and i’d never forget how special you make me feel]
yes, i am aware that its ‘sweet nothings’ but anything you say means everything to me and maybe i don’t say it enough but the chance of you choking over my sweet abyss wasn’t a factor i would definitely let it slip out once in a while
you’ve asked me to describe what your scent was and well who would i be to say? i mean sure your scent clings onto my jacket no matter how many times it takes a spin in the wash almost like the thought of you contrasting against the carnival of fairy tale blue fairy lights i hang by the side of my bed, i’d like to imagine that you do the same, i’d like to imagine that you flip through the words left stranded in those pages i’ve spent days rewriting and taking minutes of my day to ensure that you’ll be able to read it - whenever you feel the blue from your clothes painting your spirit, i’d like to imagine that you curled up with your jacket at dusk the same way i did as i tried to dissect parts of me from you only to find that i really couldn’t
it’s the next day and 11:50pm, but you’re still on my mind,
“you’re like the light of my day i can’t get you out of my head sometimes,”

sometimes i flinch when someone makes contact with my side and my shoulders but for a second i think that it just might be you cause’ i’m so used to you pressed up so close to me as you run your nails down my side in the darkness that swallows me whole late at night as you pull me closer eyes still on the screen ahead of us as i learn to let go and take your palm in mine, running my fingers over yours delicately just to remind myself that you are here and you are mine and that this moment is ours and ours alone like the others i’d store in the attic of my mind whereby i’d use the fireflies as light to read off the water colouring you’ve left in my mind.

i know you’ve never called me yours apart from that one time whereby i couldn’t differentiate between the sincerity caught between the tides of those flamboyant words of yours that entraps me with every breath as i submerge under the tides.

Her skin clings but won't bark-chip
and I am stuck pondering the contradictions of lust--
confusions and revisions of the same desperate line
But-- I loved you,
I loved you,
I love you never sounded right.

I have a fervent untrimmed wick.
When I flicker: I slip--

unless I forget and dial tonight.
I will not call.

But her eyes closed tightly when she kissed me--
I watched as her eyelashes
fluttered and fell on my
cheeks--

I will cry your wishes away.
I will try to forget we existed.
I will twist and thrash unleashed and unabashed

I will make a loud noise.
I will scream in my sleep
when the moment to choose confronts me.

Then,
Why when our fingertips itched
were our tangles strewn out in obsessive neat
lines--
my lust and the pain in her taking.
my desperate ache for her lip.
for the smell she occupied and wore
like the smell of mold on trees

I cannot change the way she bleeds.

It astounds me just how ignorant I can be of the hurt i have caused those i have at whatever time counted myself closest to. I find myself thinking i understand, thinking i did well to minimize the damage, and maintain the truth, but that the truth gets minimized, and the damage gets maintained in its fullest potential. I do not often hurt on purpose. I strive to do the very opposite. I do not want  to be a vindictive man, but a man of forgiveness and mercy. I find that I , in my own strength am capable only of so much mercy and forgiveness giving, that at the ends of my strength, the mercy and forgiveness run dry, while people's need to be forgiven infinitely continues to grow.  I find that in such cases, i am in direct combat with my emotions, and with , simply put, myself. I want to forgive, but i do not want there to be no punishment or repercussion to action. And so, opting for such a thing as is called grace, i pray, and one by one, i put emotions to rest. Insecurities of my own manifest and must be killed. I fight. And i pray.These two things are synonymous. I attempt to make recompense, and where i see my own minimizing of truth, in hindsight, set it to it's full nature, bluntly, and plainly, no matter the pain it brings. I am truly sorry that it brings pain. yours, and any, and many others. I only seek as best i can to right the wrongs i become aware of in myself. And yes, sometimes i am guilty of seeking loopholes, roundabouts, or escapes. I will not shy from this fact. I will, note, however, that i often need be made aware of these. For my constructing them is done with so much cunning, and so much stupidity,as to blind myself in both knowledge and deed to their existence. On occasion i taste an inkling of an excuse, and sometimes i am strong enough in myself to face it. Other times, without being confronted, i run from it. I chalk them up to insecurities or uncertainties, over analyzations and things i cannot at all bring any help to.I would ask boldly, that if you see any in specific, you will not for your own hurt, though likely being substantial, shy from me , rather, bring them to light, and give me life in the opportunity to reconcile my own beliefs to my actions. I have found lately that i have a struggle many men have. Esse quam videri- to be rather than to appear. My seeking, my willingness, essentially arises from a quest after authenticity at all costs. If i am not real to myself, and to others, what value can I, or my relations have? I must be real with myself, and with my God, if i am to truly know him, for in knowing myself, I may understand how I relate to my savior. I am glad to finally begin to see the edges of good qualities i have only before been able to imagine myself as having - even if i have had them all along. They , in me, have always seemed imaginary, something to comfort me of my complete depravity. Some slight beginnings of love to alleviate my sufferings of self hate - whether for my actions or my form. I have found my alleviations outside myself, and clung wholly to them.I can now be aware of my complete depravity, and allow grace not only to be applied by Christ himself to me, but apply it to myself, as much or more than i have managed to apply it to others. I do not contend for the opportunity to hide, but for the opportunity, the courage, and the strength, to show myself, and to be known to myself, others, and God. I have long gone about this in ways i thought apt, a plethora of ways i have discovered to be thin veneered self medication. Whether by substance - or by using my actions, separate. By using the very chase of authenticity as an excuse to numb myself from the crime of my identity.I am no crime. Though I am bought at the price of those crimes i have perpetrated, and those crimes that i will inevitably perpetrate - the cost is the blood of the most loving and  most beloved. It is paid, and i , being bought, must not any longer appear as the essence of my crime, nor in the essence of penance. I am free to behold my identity separate from my depravity. I am free from sin that has died in me. My value has been uncovered. I am as a jewel, found smudged with dirt, in need of being formed and cut. The dirt has been washed free. I shine. Facet after facet comes into existence, while rough edge after rough edge begs to be spared and clings to being.

there are times when the words pour out of me from the darkest, deepest parts of my body and they just keep flowing and my lungs ache with the need to breathe but i just have to get these words out of me before they **** me. and then they’re there. a ****** jumble on the ground at your feet and you don’t understand, can’t sift through the mess i just gave you. sometimes you don’t say anything at all and you stare into my eyes waiting for the punch line that never comes. sometimes you say the completely wrong thing and it’s like a punch in the chest instead. i desperately want you to understand what goes on in here, why i do the things i do and why i am so awkward even at the best of times. i want you to understand that i come from a place of debilitating integrity with a dash of self-loathing that clings to the outlines of my shadow everywhere i go. i can see you trying to read my lips and listen to my words but somewhere along the way they get lost and wander off and it’s like we’re beyond speaking a foreign language to each other — we’ve become two separate species entirely.

5 mar, 2012

I'm jealous of that tiny, little dress
How it clings to the contours of your body
And how the seams caress your thighs
Where I wish my hands could caress
And my lips could cling.


M•(e). Díaz