I held onto your t-shirt for a month after I left your house before deciding to write this poem.

They say that if you hold on to something that was never yours in the first place, you'll start to feel guilty within a few weeks after you've taken it.
I took your shirt because I wanted to have a piece of you once I had stepped foot out of your door;
The guilt followed about two minutes after I even thought of taking it.

But I kept it anyway.

Sleepless is all I am nowadays;
Your arms don't encompass me anymore,
Your breath isn't hot on my skin,
Your scent doesn't travel throughout my sinuses,
and I don't have anyone to hold me when the nightmares do.
I guess you can say that I grew to need the comfort of the plaid shirt you gave to me-
The shirt I didn't decide to steal from you-
Because it's the closest I'll get to something of your own  choice that you gave me to keep besides memories.

This poem is a mess but so am I,
And I have never been messier than I am when buried in thoughts of you.
Some say that is about as healthy as a whole bowl of mint chocolate chip ice cream,
But I beg to differ because at least one brings some sort of real comfort.

I can't tell you how many nameless metaphors I have written about you,
How many countless letters I have written to you.
I can't tell you how many sleepless nights I have gone through,
How many dryless tears have rolled down my face because I am engulfed with thoughts of what we were,
What we could have been.
I can't tell you how many timeless pieces of paper have made their way into the trash because I could never finish my trail of emotions to you.

My veins are not sober.
My heart is not weightless.
My eyes are not shiny.
There is no guide to help me out here.
There is no book of rules to follow to help me get the **** over you.
You have been my strong sense of calm that has put me at ease for so many months.
And all I wanted was for you to love me wholeheartedly,
To love and want me as much as I did you.

This poem is a mess, and so am I,
So I'm not even going to try to finish it with some magical, metaphorical, realization of mine.
Because the only realization I have come across, painfully, is that I'm not going to get another chance to show you how hauntingly, extraordinarily, completely, utterly, and truly breathtaking I am.

- { m.j. }

elle n'est pas one hell
of an elle in does
brightly chafe with
dower stocking removal
hastily into thigh as thigh
does improbably hairless
Glide into petite grande
pink pretty pinched heaping
of dryless ****** helping
of **** help needing

A quick drizzle of angles that
unsuddenly with immortal pairing
bare the rude stem of Spring–

which cannot unbarley but to shreak
the tiniest whisper of "please into my
house enter the deepest blooming
of red red red steam   "

being i just could only
that at
the naked perfume
of her
seeping incessantly laughter
but to boom as wide and cloyingly
drunk with open health

as God had said
making the world
by one word: she

said not one word
(making my world)
but two,

               "**** me"