i watch the clock tick to 2 milliseconds past 1900 hours and i remember how, at 2 milliseconds past 1400 hours, just 5 hours earlier, i was cradling you in bed
it was warm and we were interlocked and you looked heavenly
the glow of the sunshine a halo around a face full of sleep and too beautiful even for poetry.
i try to verbalise you, try to write you down to make your existence more fathomable –
i cannot.
there are no words for a heart that beats honey through soft-skinned veins,  that swirls around your mouth like saliva and you taste so **** sweet.
i told my doctor i have a sweet tooth, what i meant was i am addicted to you; what i meant was i can’t stop waking up in the middle of the night to fix the cravings i have when you aren’t there.
what i meant was, sometimes i sleep walk, find myself at
platform number 5 of the same station i left you at hours before hoping that some sweet fragrance of you still lingers.
i watched the clock tick to 2 milliseconds past 1900 hours and i watched the train move away in slow motion.
i watched your face until i couldn’t see it anymore and i have never felt longing like it. suddenly i felt like a lost kid at the supermarket trying to find their parent and i wanted to scream for you to come back because although this train moved in slow motion i swear 2 milliseconds passed and you were gone.
i tried not to blink because i didn’t want to miss a single moment.
i sent you “i love you” through a screen that is too familiar to me now and felt the itch of my craving against my spine –
i will wait for you.
i replay the last kiss in my head; it was probably our seventieth goodbye kiss because each one didn’t encompass all the love we needed to express before the train departed and i taste honey.
i cannot make your existence more fathomable because that would mean to understand you and in all your complexity, i never want to stop learning –
so please,
allow me to explore your mind in every neurotransmitter, in every dopamine dosage, in every fight or flight reaction; allow me to explore what it is to be you and let me write you into every poem i ever produce, let me hallucinate you into every city street, cast your reflection in every shop window, replace every tin of beans with jars of honey and settle like dust on my lips –
i will wait for you.
every day, i wait for you.

how do you paint water, or clouds?

I could read poetry for the brief,
of my of remaining life, however brief,
and never be satiated, of love, and streams of water,
never stilled, always running in patterns that exist,
but for milliseconds, admired by clouds born in, of,
a moment of re-formation that is perpetuity long:
unending shape shifting, like the freedom of flowing water
currents, forming, reforming and unthinkable, nay,
inconceivable that human eyes or their spoken words
could capture their shiny white foamy essence

But of love, that we can do, paint, design, recreate its
endless loops of undulations, like the radiating circularity
of a pebble dropped gently to its burial sight in a quiet pond.

Humans know, understand and excel at clasping and grasping
at the synapsing of human cells from differing bodies: the
exogenous erogenous of human touch that like the clouds
and the water, who could paint that, who capable of capturing
said sensations that wrack and enliven the body with invisible
interior chemical reactions. I cannot. Thankfully better men and women have treatised  their entreaties to the powers of the universe and been rewarded with the skilled delicacy of weaving human tapestries, the milliseconds of connectivity, eclectic and electrifying of different currents and differing amperage’s forming and reforming like water moving, just  like the clouds changing in response to the externalities of wind and gravity and all the forces of nature that encourage us to study and stare at these flows, hoping to entrance them into standing still for but a moment, and instead, mesmerizing us into standing motionless for hours in awe of their freedom.

Love’s undulations too mesmerizing, and freezing us into
place, or alternatively caucus to run endlessly arms extending,
flying though not airborne , rocketing us upwards while feet never budging, but finding good wards, masterful metaphors to recreate and thus to share the fabulous mystery of this thing we know as love.


2:58AM
Friday
jul 22 (jewel 22) of the 23rd year of the 21st Century.


O.L.P.

i'm trying to map my way
to happiness, to reach that feeling
of euphoria, of bliss,
and not follow it up with a
"i'm never going to get this feeling back"
thought.
it's like i know there's this bundle
of energy inside of me, waiting to
be tapped into; i can feel it
sometimes, when there's something
so funny i can't breathe, and my legs
collapse at the same time my lungs
do. but even then there's this
mantra in my head, this "oh my god
do they think my laugh is horrible
i wheeze like an old lady just like
that boy told me once in the fifth grade
and it's not attractive, and it's not like i've
got a lot going for me now, not with
a hundred pounds too many
and these hideous patches of
irritated red across my whole face"
and i can't hold on to the buzz
of joy and pleasure and living;
it's like getting high for the first time
and crashing back into reality with
sickeningly crystal clear vision,
and then you feel like everything you
do is this act, this mask that weighs
twenty pounds and hurts
so much that when you take it off,
it's like crawling into yourself
and falling unconscious for the next
15 hours.
and i'm trying, i'm trying to
reach this inexhaustible
source of happiness and golden light
but it's like everyone else has found
the key to happiness and peace
and life, and i'm drowning in the middle
of the night in the moats outside the gate
because i can't ******* swim and
there's monsters coming in from
every angle. and i just
accept it, because it seems like
despite all the effort i put in, there's
this bitter ***** that's seeping through
and she's angry, she hates everything
and she wants to ruin it for
everyone else if she can, and behind
her is the little girl cowering that
wants to believe in fairy tales and
saving people and flying
and Peter Pan and God,
and she's whispering
"Look, it's right over there,
let's just fly over that wall!"
and she can't see that life
isn't that simple, you can't skip
the middle bits to get to happiness;
you don't get the laughs without tears
and the better bones without a few
breaks and stronger hearts only
come around when you've gone
through enough that you
feel it turn to dust behind your
ribs, when it first beats to life
again at the sight of the blue
eyes sitting in front of you
in english, or the shiny black hair
that swings across your desk
smelling like lavender and cigarette
smoke and you want to be okay,
you want everything to be okay
but you still can't pass the **** gate
and there's no key to be seen
so you're left hollow and
desperate, filling yourself with
anything that makes you feel,
food and music and words and jewels
and things from your past, holding
on until your knuckles are pouring
blood like a waterfall.
you get so full that all the oceans
and seas and bays and lakes
lap against the walls of you and
push while sufficiently weighing you
down and slamming you to a
stop and you're lazy and you can't
get up, can't get out of bed without 12
hours of sleep even though you're
only getting five on good nights and
you can't even get ready in the mornings
until you can clock the time left in at
10 minutes, and life is ticking around
you in milliseconds while you're
pushing through, and you can see
the light at the end of the tunnel because
you've pushed through so much already
and you're only 16 milliseconds in,
there's at least 50 more to go and that's
a whole lifetime.
and you wonder "what if that lifetime
isn't enough? what if i need 70 milliseconds
ore than 16 and i only get 23 milliseconds
for my whole life? what if i die right now,
cardiac arrest, or i step out into
a car going 180 miles-per-hour,
or i just go to sleep and don't wake up,
not even when prince charming kisses me?
what if i die before i ever get past
that golden gate? what if i never get
to bathe in the glow of that ball
of glee sitting behind those
ivy covered walls?
what do i do
if i die and never grasp
the true concept of day to day
happiness?
what if i'm like this
forever?"

the bus poets

we are the modern day chimney sweeps,
the ***** black faced coal miners of the city,
digging up its grit, toasted with its spit,
the gone and forgotten elevator operators,
the anonymous substitutable,
still yet glimpsed occasionally,
grunts of urbanity
provoking a surprised
whaddya know!

once like the bison and the buffalo,
we were thousands,
word workers roaming the cities,
the intercity rural routes and the lithe greyhounds
across the land of the brave,
free in ways the
founders wanted us to be
us, the stubs and stuff,
harder working poor and lower cases

we were the bus poets,
sitting always in the back of the bus,
where the engines growls loudest,
seated in the - the most overheated
in winter time, so much so
we nearly disrobed,
and then come the summer,
we were blasted with a joking
hot reverie from the vents,
but vent, no, we did not!

no - we wrote and wrote of all we heard,
passion overheated by currents within and without,
recording and ordering the
snatches and the soliloquies of the passengers,
into poem swatches;
the goings on passing by,
the overheard histories,
glimpsed in milliseconds, eternity preserved,
inscribed in a cheap blue lined five & dime notebook,
for all eternity what the eyes
sighed and saw

books ever passed
onto the next generation in boxes from the supermarket,
attic labeled, then forgotten beside the outgrown toys
with our names writ indelible with the magic of
black markers

if you stumble upon a breathing scripter,
let them be, just observe,
as they, you,
these movers and bus shakers,
as they, observe you

tell your children,
you knew one in your youth,
then take them to the attic
retrieve your mother's and father's,
teach your children
how to read, how to see,
the ways of their forefathers,
the forsaken,
the bus poets.

i used to think about you
in the hazy moments
before a class lecture ends and a quiz begins
where i zone out
between writing my name
and answering the first question
how i zone out
half-asleep and half-bored,
but enthusiastic with the idea
of studying for exams with you.

i used to think about you
in the quiet moments
after a long *** day balancing school and work
where i walk
from the gate
to your front door step
how i walk
tired and exhausted,
but energized with the idea
of talking to you.

but i will.
i will write it and it may take me
five minutes
or it may take me fifty.
and neither of the two is an absurdly long amount of time,
unless you really think about it.
because five measly minutes
is just the same
as three hundred seconds.
and three hundred seconds
is just the same
as three hundred thousand milliseconds.

we've only just covered one-tenth of an entire fifty minutes,
yet already we have before us
three hundred thousand intricate units of time,
each lasting for the blink of an eye -- no, less --
then vanishing,
like the evanescent remains of a flame
that has been reduced
to first sparks,
then dull embers,
then ashes.

the funny part about it is that you never know
what each tiny little bubble of time might hold,
what might happen when it forms,
or when it pops.

a millisecond is incredibly short,
almost unfairly so.

but three hundred thousand milliseconds?

it can't be said what could happen as those fleeting fractions
slip away.

we may try to grab hold of them,
to catch them in our palms.

but time stops for no one.

so you may find yourself
with empty, bleeding palms,
as a reminder that time is harsh, cruel,
tyrannical.

and as you wrap bandages around your wounds
(or maybe not),
those fleeting milliseconds
will laugh with sudden bursts of cynicism,
like fireworks,
deafeningly silent.

they will laugh
at what a fool you were,
thinking you could catch time
in the palms of your hands.

(a.m.)

September 1st, 2001.
I woke up to that same annoying alarm clock, 7:03 AM
Morning shower, morning coffee, morning breakfast –
I changed the calendar but I dropped the tack to hold it up.

September 2nd.
I’m thinking about October,
All the trees ablaze with orange and red, pumpkin pie in the season, cinnamon tingling in the air.
The new Spirit Halloween store opened up around the block. Superhero costumes are pretty cool.

September 3rd.
My mom takes me out to dinner because it’s Monday.

September 4th.
Routine

September 5th.
Routine

September 6th
In calculus, 11 is my favorite number.

September 7th.
Routine

September 8th.
Routine

September 9th.
My routine staccato.
Taxis responds after 3 calls,
My favorite professor gave me a hard time,
I wanna go home.
After the hustle of ants we call people,
loud street venders,
that creepy guy on the street corner,
NO, I do not want to try your new raspberry cheesecake Jack In The Box, I just wanna get my **** food and go home.
I arrive and melt into my sofa, falling asleep to the news.

September 10th.
No alarm clocks.
In the evening, my mom and I go out to dinner because today is Monday.
Red Lobster has the BEST seafood and while we’re eating,
she complains about the air conditioning in her new work place.
She works for some business in the twin towers.

September 11th, 2001
Instead of the alarm, sirens wake me.
I find the tack to hold up my calendar. – It’s Tuesday.
My feet, cold and lifeless, wander around the house until they trip over the scent of smoke.
Those sirens must’ve stopped nearby.
My mom is at work.
I want to get some air,
so I grab the keys off my splintered champagne desk,
****** them into ignition,
fingers wrapping around cruise control,
shifting into reverse,
the monotone GPS lady telling me to turn left.

The smoke is denser.
I follow her voice: turn right.
The smoke is solid.
Keep straight.
The smoke is suffocating.
In 3 hundred feet, turn left
The smoke is the sky –
Charlie Chapman gray.

My mom was at work.
Around me were firetrucks sparking with blinding flashes that screamed the word “emergency.”
My mom was at work.
The sight ahead was morbid. Unnerving. Disastrous.
It was like Halloween, except there were no superhero costumes, only firefighters and policemen.
My mom was at work.
The tower had holes punctured into their glass windows,
Smoke rising like leaves stemming out of the stump of skyscraper.
My mom was at work.
People like ants, fleeing, scattering, put on the mask of apocalyptic expression.
The throaty yells of “it was a plane” stuffed my eardrums
It was a plane, they said, it was a plane.
This was not routine.
My mom was at work.
The alarm woke me up.
I had my morning coffee.
It took all the synapses in my brain to deny what was right in front of me.
My senses detected telephone signals exploding with,
"I’m fine honey, don’t worry,”
Airlines confused and cramming.

I parked my car in overwhelming paralysis.
Above me, a screech of a whistle filled what was left of the air,
Followed by a boom that replicated my heart.
Frozen. Milliseconds frozen.
The plane was flying too low
WHAT HAPPENED?
There were people in those towers,
Everything was an epiphany --
Marriages, birthdays, fathers, sons, mothers, daughters,
Now cadaverous bodies antigravitating in rubble of boring office walls, family pictures.
Death in one swift move of terror.

My mom was at work.
We went to dinner yesterday.
My mom was at work.
The seafood tasted amazing.
My mom was at work.
She complained about the air conditioning.
My mom was at work.
She got a new job in the twin towers.
The twin towers are ablaze
The twin towers are spilling orange and red
They are sending ashes tingling through the air
This was not the October I asked for.
I longed for September 1st
I dropped the tack to hold up my calendar.

It’s Wednesday.
September 12th, 2001.
I did not sleep.
The news kept me awake, kept saying terrorist attack, terrorist attack, identified bodies, many mourning.
Because of their god, they lessened faith in mine.
This was the closest the public eye were to see a warzone-
Text messages cluttered with sympathy.
My routine changed for the rest of my life.

10 years later
Alarm clocks ringing, 7:03AM I stay in bed.
It’s Monday. I do not go out to dinner.
Instead, I drive 5 miles out to the cemetery.
People are still ants, pushing and shoving to where they need to go, they walk as if they had forgotten.
I no longer crave the red and orange of fall, cinnamon is foreign to my senses.
I hate the number 11 because it’s etched on your gravestone.
Your gravestone – gray and dense like the smoke
I wish they were not a constant reminder of the future I live in, but you don’t.
Today, there are no exclaiming yells of people or screeching whistles of planes.
Today there is only silence.

There is only silence.

dissipated and disillusioned worms eating through the last splinters of the rotting universal wood.

the last transmission of regret sent electronically, spluttered,
into a tissue; in a moment of self indulgent *******.

live showings of vicious execution, transmitted directly from the electromagnetic waves into the alpha waves of the young and naive. Desensitization, the last drops of humanity into complete disengagement.

endlessly recycled bohemian ideologies whispered into the ear of the eager idealist. spreading like fire, before burning out into the uncatchable reverie up with the stars, with all the other reveries, shining bright, intangible.

Instant dismissal from the old man, as the big curtain draws. Cynicism and fragmented past, falling on apathetic eyes, a proud man treat with a padded hand. faux sympathetic tones, blushing cheeks on old bones.

Begging with your body crumbling to dust with the disinterested doc, looking at the clock counting the milliseconds to the paycheck. Decomposing until you can be swept under the perpetual rug with the rest, Vacuum.

I sit
Helping my mom
Sticking stickers on various ribbons
I look back on today's swim meet.
During freestyle, I was put in a heat only with a girl who hardly knew the stroke
I touched the wall over five seconds before her, scoring a new high score for my freestyle time; 42 89, which is 42 seconds and 89 milliseconds.
Next, I had backstroke to do with a friend of mine a lane over
Although I was placed for success, I barely came in last for my heat.
Then, all I had to do was read.
Pretties, by Scott Westerfield sat open in my hand, with me absorbing all of the words as if I wrote them myself
Tally was watching her former friend Shay become a monster. Nice story.
After awhile, I started helping my mom put identifying stickers on ribbons.
How lovely

We have dinner two weeks later after the phone call at a place called Spencers. It's a hole in the wall with 50 cent oysters, cheap drinks, and a single waitress that isn't hard to look at. She tells us her name is Olivia, that she grew up around town, and went to school in Boston to study something. We both nod when she tells us this, but we don't say anything, nothing like a congratulations or feign of interest. We've both had this conversation too many times to show genuine interest anymore. I think about this when I order the hamburger with no cheese and avocado on the side and it makes me sad.
"How would you like the burger cooked, then?" Olivia asks me.
"Medium rare, please. Thank you." I hand her the menu and smile.
"And for you?"
"Fish and chips," he says, "With a small cob salad on."
"Great," she says, "And it was great talking with you guys."
"Yep," I nod, wanting her to leave.
"And those drinks will be right up."
"Fantastic," he grins, his eyes lazy and looking away from her.
Something in me tells me that maybe it wasn't a good idea to order drinks this early. It's only 10am and I haven't even had any coffee yet. Perhaps a ****** Mary will do us some good? A kick to the nervous system with tomato juice and ***** and a little hot sauce may be a better way to wake oneself up rather than liquid brown *******. He didn't show any signs of hesitation, so all seems to be well...keep it to two, maybe three if conversation is easy. Above us, the sky is light blue and clear. Trees line the sidewalk with seven feet of distance separating them, birds filling their branches, chirping wildly.
"How are things, my friend?" I ask.
"Things are," he pauses and looks at a passing dog and their owner," Good. Been working a little bit as well as working on some other projects."
"What kind of projects?" I know he's been making movies and I've seen his latest, which I liked, but he rarely embellishes on anything else.
"Scripts and movie stuff. Some music. Working on a website."
"I'd love to see it if you would be comfortable with that sort of thing."
"Yeah," he says, watching the waitress as she puts our two drinks on the table, smiling as she does it," I'll have to send some finished stuff your way." I know he won't. I know that he'll forget, either on purpose or by accident, but I nod and say that that would be great.
"I'll have to send you some my stuff. See what you think." I've been working on some small writing projects, trying to piece a book together of short fiction. It's been coming along, but I get distracted, things come up, more "important" things that I feel guilty for doing later. Normal pains.
He nods his head, digging his straw into the tomato juice and ice, swirling it around a bit, forcing the pepper to the bottom.
"They put too much ****** pepper in this thing."
"Yeah," I agree, "I might say something. These ******'s are expensive."
"Don't bother," he tells me, "They're fine. Let the ***** work her magic for a minute. Olivia seems to like us. I wouldn't want to upset her."
I look over at her behind the bar. She's making a large tray of mimosas for a table of women at the back of the restaurant. From the pink banners scotch taped to the wall and mound of presents, someone is having a baby shower. A baby...good God...how would I survive that? Good thing I'm single. Olivia struggles to pick up the tray and for an instant, I have the urge to get up and help her with it. He sees me staring at her and kicks me under the table.
"You like her?" he asks.
"What?" I laugh, "Who?"
"Olivia, you goon."
"I was watching her try and pick up that flight of mimosas. I was sure she was gonna' drop the thing. She's so tiny."
"Why don't you go help her out?" He teases, looking up at me as he takes a sip of the Mary from his straw. "She's alright." One of his eyebrows inches up.
"Nah," I say, "It's too early."
"I just read somewhere that no one is ever actually living in the present. The reason I say that is because I was just about to say something cheesy like "YOLO" or "Live in the Now", but then I remembered that article and it stopped me dead."
"Why can't we?" I ask him. He seems suddenly perky and intrigued by his own memory of the article.
"Something like every human being is living at least 80 milliseconds in the past. David Eagleman believes that our consciousness lags behind actual events and that when you think an event occurs, it has already happened before your brain has a chance to create a cohesive picture of the world."
"So what we're seeing right now has already happened in the natural world 80 milliseconds ago?"
"Something like that. I guess you could equate it to looking in a mirror that reflects an image that's always slightly behind."
"But the time is so small, one would never notice or really know anything was lagging behind in the first place. Everything seems present right now, right?"
"Yeah," he says, "It does, but I can see the argument that we are all slightly behind our brains and our eyes and the world outside. It's all just too much."
"Overwhelming," I mutter, taking a large pull from my drink."
"Let's get another round. You want another round?" He picks up the drink menu that was hanging off the edge of table.
"Yeah," I nod, looking out on the street, "I'm good to go."
"I'll get her." He raises his hand and Olivia sees it. She comes over, smiling, grinning like mad as usual. We order two more drinks and wait for our food.

Man had come far,
And had worked hard.
Space was no longer a frontier,
But a home.

It began long ago,
When science in its heavenly power, bestowed,
Among the beasts of man,
Black Hole Harvestation.

Changing the very shape of worlds,
The speed of light and beyond,
All became possible,
When and where nothing exists.

It was an age of warfare and destruction,
The likes of which are untold,
The number will never be found,
Trillions were lost in those Black Wars.

But a few did survive,
An extinct Earth,
As they fled to make their new home,
On the colony of Mars.

Ironic though it was,
Seeking Peace,
On the God of war,
They made their new land happy.

If anywhere in any time,
Was truly the land of “milk and honey”,
Then It was them and then,
Back in the very first days…

Of a galactic empire.

Hundreds of years pass now,
In the blink of an eye,
Earth had been reclaimed, reformed,
Along with a galaxy to go a by.

Humanity is now at the apex of its power,
Ruled together by the ultimate congregation,
The Delegation of Stars,
But Pride doth come before the fall.

Everyone had their say,
And for all the wonders and riches then,
It was hard to say nay,
They shall go to the core.

To the Universe’s lore,
They went flying in their fleets,
100 Juggernaughts from Syntrax, on the fringes of the Great Nebulae Sea,
734 cruisers from Ralon in the Hose-Head system.

A thousand ships minus one from Earth,
And a mere six from the Gemini Apollo colony,
And countless others from all over,
Led by the Fleet of Mars, who’s glory and majesty, was beyond mere men.

They left in moments and arrived in light years,
Waking in seconds refreshed and surprised,
What they found , what they’re greatest of technologies could not see,
Inside the densest of Super Black Holes.

Was the remnants from three Big Bangs hence,
Harvesting ever since,
You think millions of years is a lot for man?
Try trillions for one.

It was a battle not a slaughter,
As communication broke down,
This was the last thing we expected,
We who entered there.

From that day on,
The Battle was named,
The Loss at the Core.

A retreat was ordered,
As black holes sprung up from within their machines,
Their weapons surpassed each and every defense,
Some older ships were hacked and turned against each other.

One ship stayed behind,
Defiant even in defeat.
The Flagship of The Empire,
Named “Justly Sweet”,
It’s last report was,
2 years ago today,
It showed the bridge going to hell and gone,
As the devil was unleashed.

But all throughout, the captain stood there,
Commanding, leading, fighting,
All the way to the end.
A warrior’s death.

The race then named,
The Paraplex,
Found a new reason to be,
To destroy us, we who shed their and out blood.

It was a year since that battle,
Our whole northern sector had fallen,
The plan was simple, taken from history,
A choke point at Thermopylae, with the greatest defensive systems this side of mars.

A million guns had been constructed,
Ever since the war and before.
Particle dissimulators from moons, orbits and the planet.
One, bigger than some suns.

The plan was simple,
The Western Sector,
Well, it was in charge of defense,
It’s formidable shield and anti-quark technologies, would save us all.

Meanwhile the Eastern, Southern, And C.C. (Central-Capital) Sections,
The offensive flank,
They would of course bring.
Once a battle has begun, then they would be flung.

It was of course, perfect.
But so much was already lost.
Planets, Systems, whole Galaxies,
All but gone.

This was worse than the Black War,
There would be no recovery,
You can always change what is there,
But what’s gone is gone.

The military was ready,
The Civilians were evacuated,
Now comes the calm before the storm.
And then the lightening across the sky, it erupted.

In the opening seconds,
Their fleet was almost demolished,
Ambushed beyond belief,
Plasma ripped tears in space and time.

The black turned green and red and cosmic blue,
The space itself was warped by the colors of war,
The guns blazing their sub-atomic blasts,
Invisible to the naked eye.

The gamma ray bombs,
How they exploded in such wonderful forays,
We were blinded, of course,
We could stills see through their computers and technologies.

Losses were few, it seemed true,
That the adamant technologies,
Of the Western Section,
Held up beyond belief.

It was a beautiful carnage they unleashed,
And to complete their victory,
The Northern, Eastern, And C.C.,
Upon black hell’s they ran.

But OH! The Greatest blunder in Human history,
The enemy snatched victory from the hands of defeat,
For this was but a suicide mission,
One for just a minor army.

It was inconceivable to us then,
How useless a life is to them,
After trillions of years,
We would have won the battle, yes that’s clear.

But then it became something,
Something darker and crazy,
A Super Nova they unleashed,
A technology we had yet to discover.

The Entire System was destroyed,
In a matter of milliseconds,
The greatest of shields, the biggest of guns,
Fell instantly, to the miniature big-bang.

So many soldiers…
So many ships…
So many generals…
So many friends.

In mere seconds they died,
For how far we had come,
How much we had lost,
As innumerable as the stars.

No one talks about that battle,
The Slaughter at Thermopylae.
No one can,
We can’t afford to cry.

The battles still continue,
Here and there.
But ever since then,
They’ve basically divided and conquered.

The Paraplax, ****** into our wings,
And took away our flight,
The West and East both became silent,
Faded into the night.

A galactic siege of an empire spanning
Millions of light years,
Soon began,
But first came the worst.

In the Capital of the Southern Section,
They betrayed us and were betrayed.
For they had no use for slaves,
Mercy was an unfamiliar word to they.

The surrounding was complete,
The end result quite clear.
We wouldn’t be able to make it past the new year.
And slowly, methodically, they came.

What did they have to fear?
And planets fell,
My wife did on escape,
Systems were crushed without notice, without faith.

Now there is just us.
A Battalion and Mars.
There is not much point to it all I guess,
We’ve basically been eradicated.

But they keep playing that video,
All on every screen.
The captain, as explosions and black holes erupt around him,
Yelling quite furiously at his subordinates, seeking victory in defeat.

He didn’t give up,
If we’re going to die,
Then we’ll be men about it,
For there is not much time left.

To any race in the future or the past,
Who ever encounters out Swan Song,
This includes our entire history, in more detailed account,
And our greatest treasures.

We send it to you now,
The Universe,
Echoing forever,
Among the waves of sound.

So ends the last report,
Nay the last words,
This is John Ashton Upston, the 354th,
President of The Empire Fallen Among The Stars

Frenchie. there's a lot that i'll probably never tell you. either in fear that it will drive you away, in spite of the numerous times that you've told me you won't leave or run because the chance of something scaring you off is slim. or simply because it slips my mind. trauma, am i right? you say a lot, and i mean this in the best way.  you can talk, and you can tell me as many things as you want, and i'll never properly believe them because i've learned that words are ****. then again all we have are words, smiles, and through-the-phone, air-blown, crush-induced kisses that bring back memories, and yet rewrites them as something entirely new and, of course, much much better. something ours. i hope it's never given to another person, this sweet kiss of life, the final kiss of death, an angel brings me to heaven, enter whatever aesthetically pleasing line you want but it will never be as good as, "and so the lion fell for the lamb." haha. it's 11:16 pm, August 9th. and i'm laying in bed. for reasons i'll try to explain in a second, i'm tearing up, as i have been for a while. i think i first started tearing up the first time we called, which isn't so much a bad thing as it is a surprising thing. because it was a sad happy cry. it's similar to breaking a piece of jewelry that you really enjoyed, but then buying something much better. you loved that plastic, feeble, oversized, first love bracelet, but now you have a moonstone or (enter favorite gem) filled, perfectly fitted, wifey-made promise ring. you'll keep the bracelet somewhere, forget about it, find it again, and again, and again. discovering it under blankets, and pillows, and promises that we've tossed around ourselves. it will peek from inside my black coffee, in the dirt i praise, in the trees, in the music we'll listen to together. in the color brown, Frenchie, that's where you'll see, i'll see, we will see, that piece of plastic. dark brown, the colors of his eyes. my favorite color for the longest time. i don't want it to mean him, so it doesn't. but that's where it comes from. i'll find it, we'll find it, up until you get tired of seeing it, of seeing me see it, and take my hand, begging to throw it out. but, my to be discovered favorite gem filled, wifey-made perfectly fitted promise ring, it might take a while, with me quietly begging for your help, to get rid of him. not because i want to wear it, but because i horde emotions the way i horde stuffed animals. it's a labrinth to find the bracelet, we have no map and somehow we have to get from this forever smile to the closed-off corners of my mind, where even i, as it's supposed owner, struggle to collect, and comprehend, and conquer my horrid thoughts. but Frenchie, we laughed. and it was the first time in so long that i've been able to laugh with someone like that, and not worry, and not expect, and not be afraid. except, since we're here it's already obvious, that ended up making me afraid anyways. Random, but there's this song in my head right now. "make me behave like an animal." Sir Chloe's Animal, everything by Sir Chloe is absolutely incredible. but, let's continue. you may not believe me when i say this, but i'm scared out of my mind so entirely that every second between our conversations is an hour added to my inevitable future breakdown. how weak, and pathetic, and disgusting, i know. i have told you so many times that i can't like people, that it's so hard for me to connect to someone new, and yet it's day three and i'm imagining that i'll be happy if only you'd hold me, as if that's what you want to do, as if that will heal me, as if that should happen. as if i'm taking things slow the way i want to, and yet don't want to. if i could properly explain in words, i'd tell you with lengthy descriptions, both vastly and vaguely, calmly and excitedly, slowly and quickly covering deep hidden and obvious and in-between meaning, proving how desperately i want to be with you, be yours and you be mine, and how, ****, how i hope you don't **** me up. because all i can think when we talk is "****." you breathe, and, between each of your heartbeats, i figure out that i like you more, and more, and ****! the way your face looks so angelic when you sleep makes me just think "god, she's going to really hurt me. she's gonna **** me up, and chances are i'll thank her for it." to be hurt by you? that would be a blessing, and yet i'm shaking. what a interesting concept. i'm sure this is proof that i'm ****** up already. i keep bringing up the time. three days, Frenchie. Three. and that's it. that is literally it. that's all we've been. so explain, please, why the first few words you said had me ranting to my friends. please, tell me, how within a day, everytime your name popped up on my screen i would giggle like a child. please, explain to me, why everytime i talk about you, my cheeks hurt so much from smiling. i'm crazy, absolutely crazy, and i know my friends have to be thinking so too, because it's been. three. *******. days. but why? as in, why is that so bad? three days, what's so wrong with that? why does liking someone have to have a time? let me explain something that i've been thinking about. two years, on and off, thirteen breakups. that was Justin and I. roughly six months after the final one, i met you. "cause everytime you hurt me, the less that i cry." i'm way too good at goodbye's. i never particularly got that song the way i do now. had we stayed apart the first to the maybe fifth time we broke up, i would have took longer to heal. but it was time thirteen, so it was all expected, hurtful of course, but expected and so, it was almost boring. almost. it would have been if it didn't rip my heart out. i rebounded. hard. many times. many people. zero regrets. but this connection to you, sometimes i catch myself fearing i'm picking up where Justin and I left off. which, yes, is really toxic. but then i remind myself, this is how a good portion of relationships start. if i like you, i'll act like it. if i want to be with you, regardless if we just met, i should act like that. right? right, that's what normal people do. but we already explained i'm not normal. i'm ****** up, and i overthink. i'm ******* up. so ******* up that i can't hold eyecontact with you because i was "trained" not to, because i'm not used to, because it makes me nervous, because i hate the way my eyes look and i believe that you shouldn't have to look at something so disgusting. god here we go, i'm talking about him again. blaming him with my "trained not to" rather than blaming myself for letting it  happen. i let myself feel like that, i let myself bow down. that's on me, that was my weakness. admittedly so, yes. i'm scared of looking in your eyes. maybe out of submission. or maybe i'm afraid of seeing what i once saw in his. but truth be told, i think i'm scared of looking into anyone's. maybe i'm once again overthinking things and it's just regular anxiety. "regular anxiety," what an interesting statement that even I can't properly explain. and by the way, i never want to compare you to him, not even the good things. (just realized this entire thing is bipolar and has been written and rewritten to a point where the overdramatic stuff became simple conversation). but why not the good things? because i don't want you to be like him in any way, and i don't want to be with someone like him again. i realize that i will eventually, and might have already without properly realizing it, compared you to him. but, as i like to say, if i don't look at it, it isn't there. so we're not going to pay this any mind. there's so many things that i can say behind all of  this but my mind is going too fast, and it also just realized that most of this is literally so ******* stupid that i should shut up about, i was truly overreacting. maybe if i remember, i'll retype this until it sounds less crazy and obsessive. good thing i edit before i show, so yes i was planning on showing someone. but probably not a lot. only a few trusted people. but now that i read and reread i might just keep this to myself. not that it will matter if i explain, seeing as i might never show this to you, but it's nice to give this to a ghost of you, although it leaves my imagination running wild trying to figure out how you would respond. everytime i type something i want to rewrite it, and i have been rewriting it by the way, because there's no way in hell this captures a fraction of a fraction of the surface of how i'm hurting, even though i've been typing for almost two hours trying to find better words and longer sentences. this all sounds so meek and weak and pathetic in comparrison to the metaphoric erruptions and hurricanes and other natural disasters. haha. this doesn't feel natural. it's like i'm begging for attention, or manipulating you more. fun fact, he called me overdramatic, and manipulative, and tons of other things i won't get into, so i often use the words on myself. because it was and is accurate. i keep making myself out to be a victim and he said i always did that too, that i always victimized myself. he said it a lot. let me explain: i panic so much, i get sad over the smallest things. for example, he was mourning over the death of his mother and started yelling at me and wouldn't tell me that he loved me back, which i shouldn't have gotten mad over but i did. he told me "jesus, i can't even ******* miss my mom without having to make sure you're not having one of your episodes." of course i apologized, and tried to fix my issues myself when he got tired of me or in general and hung up. literally, believe me. i'm so ******* sensitive and it's annoying and i'm annoying, i'll never understand how i got the amazing friends that i do. Apollo knows that i don't deserve them. and please ******* please, i just want to stop crying because it hurts so bad. but after writing it down i feel so much  better. i stopped crying, this is part of my editting by the way, and i feel much better writing to you, ghost Frenchie. but really. it. hurts. so. bad. so bad to a point where my heart seemingly stops, i'm left breathless and NOT in the best of ways. and then said heart explodes. over. and over. and over. in milliseconds, again and again and again, all while the usual me laughs and tries to make my eyes look lively, you might get this but there's so many hours of the day where i hope no one can see the pain i'm in. because i literally have zero ******* clue how to explain the way that i feel. eeehhhh, how edgy. i'm sooooo misunderstood haha. when it hurts, my jaw clenches, i'm no longer in control of my breathing, my head hurts, my brain becomes helium and all i can think is "fuuuuuuck." but ****, as well, because. "i don't wanna be your friend, i wanna kiss your lips." i just want to touch you, and lay on top of you, legs around your waist, snuggled into your neck, breathing in your scent and finding shelter in it, listening to you sing whatever song you put in the background, the smell of **** and cigarettes and us. and beg you please, between each kiss, each time my hand finds yours. please, promise ring, please, please. please. learn how to love me. love me, please. heal me. please fix me. please make me okay. because i'm not. and i haven't been. and i don't know if i ever will and, ****, i swear i'm calm now. but knowing that, knowing that i will never be okay? that hurts worse. because it's proof that i'm aware i'm nowhere near good enough for you. i added on to Justin's issues. I don't want to add on to yours. "But J, remember, I told you that making sure you're okay is giving me something to take off of my life." but you need to focus on you, i can't just take all of your attention. i know that seems like i'm wanting you to tell me "i want you to have it," but that is literally the way i feel, please don't tell me that. i want you to drink water, and eat, and call me. god i feel awful for not calling you today, holy absolute wow. Frenchie, you're hurting on your own without my added everything. You deal with so much, you've dealt with so much, from your birth to the girls and boys of your past, and **** it. ****. we're talking and i should make the most of it, but i really just want to make you okay. i lied to you, y'know. you asked me about my best quality. i told you that i gave good advice, but truth is i probably don't. i think that my best quality is that i make jokes out of everything, i try to make people laugh all the time. that's not always a good thing. last time i texted, i said something about holding you and giving you a watermelon to make you happy. that might have ****** you off. truth is, i doubt there's something only seen as good in me. there's always a second face to everything that i am, i'm a two faced, four faced- no no. twenty faced *****, and not even like a bad ***** i mean like. little ***** baby type faces. and i know for a **** fact that your life has been worse than mine, Frenchie, my issues are literally nothing compared to yours. so, once again, i can't let you add my issues to your own, and yet here i am pouring myself out and begging ghost you to fix me. i mean what you don't read can't hurt you, but something tells me that i want to give it to you. everytime i think about showing you this, i cringe. because jesus three days, man, and i'm writing this absolute *******? and yet i can't just stop. i can't just leave. i'm too selfish for either of those. i have **** to say, and call it growth but i'm gonna ******' say it! y'know? someone's gonna read it eventually. half of me hopes that they send it to you without my permission, but the fact that i'm writing this out proves that it's more than half of me that hopes. and yet the thought of you reading this makes me wanna swallow rat poison. i can't just let you free, y'know? give you the chance to run without wanting to grab you by your legs, pull you back, breakdown and just ******' scream that you're mine, MINE MINE MINE, until you feel sorry for my hoarse voice from crying, scared because now you know, now you ******' know, Frenchie. the opening to run, the ability, it's here, it always has been. but you won't take it, you won't, will you? will you? no, i don't think so. because you've been through worse, because you want to convince me i'm not as bad as i make myself out to be, because you're not afraid, because "it takes a lot more than this" to scare you. don't you see? i'm manipulating you into liking me, Frenchie, i am. i know what to say, how to say it, i read people, i get under their skin, and then i play victim when they flee my spiders web. and i love it and hate myself, haha! ******* ****, please, ****, oh, please, like me. oh, Artemis. please. i want to try, and i will, but, seriously, don't. do not trust me. don't love me. don't like me. run. please. please. you shouldn't, i'm not good, i'm really not. and no one gets that. i'm the Jerry of the world, people are attracted because they feel sorry for me. that's my magnet's secret. pity. **** it. listen, i'm proud and upset at the fact that i'm doing this to you. i've admitted it, dearest Ghost Frenchie, and yet continue. because in the ways that i want to show you my crazy, use it as a "please help me" and keep you here, i do actually want to try for you. read that as many times as you want, I want this. I want to try, but this is my warning that maybe no one will read. this is an entire universe of new things and old things i haven't or thought i couldn't feel. i've thought about it, and i've almost done it, but i can't block you, save you, and leave it at that. because i actually want to try and be good enough. i had cried to my friends saying that you would hurt me, but i wonder if i'd end up being like your exes and just be more proof that you don't need that this world is ****** up. oh wow, there i go again with my manipulation. just. ****. i want to be with you, even though i don't deserve it, even though i have no right to, even though i know that you, lovely butterfly, have a life ahead of you. though small, i'm still a spider. this has been on my mind for so many hours that i've spent typing this, but i should have said so much more to you when you told me that you were having a bad night. you admitted that you were too stressed to even eat and that you didn't want to take it out on me, calling wouldn't be a good idea because you didn't want to snap at me. can i please just say that, good Aphrodite, the fact that you're humane enough to say that, to warn me, means so much. you don't want to take it out on me, you didn't know for sure if it would happen but you wouldn't even let it happen because? ****, because you're, ****,  you're a good person. you care about me already, and that's so ******* heartbreaking and heartlifting at the same time because, AH! ****, she LIKES me? likes, me? likes. me. Frenchie. likes. J? and at the same time. why? Frenchie seriously likes J? Haven't they warned her? i almost didn't text you, i almost just left you on open, just so you could come to me when you wanted to. i don't know why, but i responded. sort of like a puppy, y'know, that's just been yelled at. or, rather since you have cats, a kitten literally just purring and rubbing themselves along you even though they clawed your wall and you screamed. i was hesitant, but i knew that you'd try to be nice, i think? truly, i don't know my reasoning behind that, but you responded anyways. and maybe i'm wrong, but you sounded so soft and it made me smile. because you were trying, and it's dumb that i have to say that but, relationship wise, it's been so long since anyone has TRIED. when you leave me on opened or when you don't respond, my heart drops. which isn't to make you feel bad, because i know you're either frustrated, or busy, or it's a habit, but it scares me. because, again, three days??? and yet you leaving for a little just freaks me out. also, allow me to admit this. while we called, i have reasons for why i'd wake up everytime you moved. i was scared that i'd wake up and you'd be gone. not to be creepy, this is supposed to be romantic, but at least twice i remember waking up, and you were asleep, and i looked at you. god, you're literally so beautiful, Frenchie. you're literally so unbelievably gorgeous that the sun pales in comparison to your radiance. can i say more depressing, Justin related things? i shouldn't, because him being mentioned is literally making me look worse, but i never really feel up to talking about it with anyone besides, well, you. talking about exes with you, it's just, comforting. you telling me you were having a bad night gave me these wretched flashbacks and- oh, ****! this isn't meaning never tell me, like, please, please, always tell me, just, uh, let me explain cause, uh, ****, oh, Hades, it hurts. it's dreadful, really. he, uh,  he would get upset about something, or really anything that he could think of, and uhm. just, haha, stop talking. for uh, for literal hours.. and hours. and hours. out of nowhere. i wouldn't know why, so i'd blame myself and then i'd spam him, thinking that would make him want to answer and begin my whole, "please, don't leave, please, Justin, please, i'm sorry, i love you, don't leave, you're supposed to be my daddy, please, you're supposed to be mine," skit. i mean, see? proof. he couldn't deal with his own issues because i needed attention and reassurance. all. the. ******. time. i won't give excuses, he really just needed space. but space felt like a break, which sometimes he made for. but, right, for me, Justin was famous for his "just leave me alone's" and then the "i don't want this anymore" or "i'm really tired of you" haha. or it was the whole, "you're just not what i need in my life." or i mean "there's someone else" or, of course, haha, the, uh, last one, my personal favorite "we're just not compatible." like, oh, really? i mean, yesterday you hit me and told me that i was a ****, like? we're not? we? we aren't? compatible? wow, like, really? so, no future together? like, uh, oh! c'mon Mistah J!  ouch that hurt to say, but please laugh because haha, TRAUMA, am I right? but, wait? does that count as trauma? hm, i mean some of it was traumatic, right? wait hang on, yes. wait. being beat- ? well, not beat! i mean, like, i could still, y'know, move-? jesus **** what is wrong with me. i don't want to call it traumatic cause victimizing. haha, ****- but uh anyway. i'd be left trying to off myself in some petty way. because i felt like if he couldn't love me, if he, Justin Ryder, the long-legged **** who knew me better than anyone, couldn't love me, honestly, who would? "But, J like. you have friends!" yeah, i do, and i did then, too. but these lovely, amazing friends didn't come to mind the way they sometimes do now. sometimes. i mean, why do i feel like it has to be romantic for "i love you" to count. i say "i love you" to my friends all the time, honestly, because they need to hear it and i've lost so many people without telling them, y'know? but anyhow, right, no one came to mind. just him, and his lack of love for me. i mean, he was God. he was MY God. he was my world, everything, my reason to breathe, the reason i existed. i loved him. more than i've ever loved someone in my entire life. and, i mean, that's why i let him come back so many times, with open arms and apologies from me that should have slithered from his own serpent lips, the reptile. they rained from mine, eagerly, harshly, on repeat, no questions asked. he hit me, i apologized. he made a mistake, i said "i'll never do it again." i blamed myself for a lot of things that he did to me, gave excuses for him, too. y'know, the cliche "you don't know him like i do." god, i mean, i was right about that. no one knows Justin Ryder the way that i do. i hope no one ever does. Frenchie, dearest promise ring i keep referring to for poetic purposes, you asked me if i was over him. i am. i don't want him back. but if he ever texted or called, i'd break down, lose myself, hysterical hurricane J. not because i miss him, just because of the **** that i went through with him, Frenchie. it's small, y'know, compared to what others have went through. but it really, i mean, REALLY, made a huge impression. i don't want him. i keep saying that, everytime i do it becomes less believable but please understand that it isn't him, it's what he did. but **** there i go putting the blame on him again. Frenchie, are you over her? see, the fact that someone came to your mind means that sometimes you question it. unless you really just thought to yourself, "who, am i over who J?" maybe i'll never know. but you should know this. desperately, quite desperately, i want to tell you that your smile makes me feel safe. and i haven't been able to feel so safe from such a small thing in months, almost a year. because how could i trust his smile, y'know? even before the very end, in the middle, in the first time, how could i ever trust his soul-stealing smile? especially when i saw him making it at whatever girl he chose next or, funny thing, even during our time together. i want to explain to you, Frenchie, that i know you need space, and that, even though i realize that, i'm so terrified of ******* up the way i did with him. when i'm upset, i need to be smothered. not everyone is like that, i have to cope with it. haha, wow what a *****, i have to cope with your ways of coping, god i annoy myself. but. regardless of the amount of friends i have who assure me that, "J it wasn't your fault, Justin was the issue, J you weren't the toxic one" i can't believe it. i refuse to think that it was just him. another lyric so a song i enjoy "it takes two to toxic," i keep thinking of songs, but i think you understand that, too, my adhd love. i should have, could have, done better as a person for him. not saying that i regret not, but the fact that i could and i didn't? maybe i should have shut up, maybe i should have said more. everything was beyond the severity of walking on eggshells, which he said often that he had to do around me because, i mean, i've explained that. it's just more proof, you see, that i was too sensitive, proof that i should have been tougher, said less, comforted more. but didn't he know how he made me feel? that i was trying, truly trying my hardest? didn't he know that i loved him so entirely that i gave up my best friends so he'd look at me. didn't he know? didn't he? honestly, how could he have not. i worshipped the literal ground he walked on, didn't i? did i? or am i exaggerating again? should i have ran? yes, no. yes. maybe, or maybe he should have? i don't know. **** me, this? this really, this isn't about him. but it is. because he made my head all ******, the time with him anyways, cause once again it was me, too, and everything is like, oh, ****, a minefield or something. and i don't want you to think that i'm not over him. because i am. him, as himself, i'm over. but the way he made me feel, the experience, the way he changed me? i don't know. did i change for the better or the worst? i wish you could have known me before, maybe you would be able to tell me if the me that i am that now is better. but maybe if i knew you before, my time with him never would have happened. but i hate myself for it. "it" as in everything from the time i got with him to now, every word i've now spent almost three hours revising and rewritting, i hate myself for. that's what's ******, i don't even hate him for it or this, i literally just hate myself. i sound like such a ******* idiot for all of this,  but i'm not, Frenchie. i'm not. well, hang on, i mean i am. i'm a literal ******* *******. haha. but this is how i'm trying to explain to you, and if you ever read this maybe you'll get it. but, i want to make you happy. me. i want to make you smile more and laugh like you did, like WE did. and i know that i got attached so ****** quickly so my whole "it's hard to love people" thing seems fake. but it isn't. i can't. i literally can't tell you how hard it is. and this right here, this is hard, too. because i'm fighting with the "oh, J!! this is different" side of me and the "**** her, *******, everyone is the same" side. i'm pretty sure i told you this, but i broke up with my last girlfriend because she actually gave a **** about me. and it made me want to puke. when i did, when i left, she told me that she was in love with me. and i ran to the bathroom. and proceeded to cry, getting rid of my lunch and dinner, and almost just ended it right there because i thought, "****. if someone can love me, can say those three sacred words, to me? TO ME? i must be hiding so much from them." i just want to scream. yknow? to the world, to my friends, my family, you, that "i'm ****** UP IM ****** UP IM ****** UP PLEASE LEAVE" but "oh, gods, don't leave." please, ******* ****, if you're not ready, if you don't want me, please, tell me. if i'm too much, especially after all of this, holy ******* ****, please, tell me. because i can't take it. i can't. tell me now, these three days in where i'm confessing i want to be with you, that you can't. because i wouldn't be able to handle it much longer than from here. oh, **** yeah, it's going to hurt so much. i kept saying that i didn't want to like you. but everything draws me in, dearest Edward, and it ******* *****. it. *****. because i'm beyond aware of possibilities of the failure. and, yet, i couldn't be happier. in the middle of my frequent breakdowns, i'm so entirely full of joy. my mother tells me that i'm glowing from how entirely, like, happy i am. you're miles away, Frenchie, and yet you make me happier than i've been in a long, long, LONG time, dancing and singing around my room like an absolute idiot because i'm thinking, y'know, MAYBE. MAYBE THIS IS THE ONE. "J MAYBE YOU CAN BE LOVED, AGAIN. MAYBE SHE'LL LOVE YOU, MAYBE YOU AREN'T AS BAD AS YOU MAKE YOURSELF OUT TO BE." and everything looks so ******* amazing with you in the picture. and, still, i always ask myself, is this too fast? am i still not ready, still taking things too fast, should i shut up, am i hiding too much, doesn't she get my bipolarness and bpd? you do right, you do? oh ******* ****- **** all that, those last few questions are entire other things, and it's now 2:07 in the morning and i'm ******' done. the end done, I won't write anything else. except this. Frenchie, I know you love being called that, but there's something so entirely personal about being called by your name. sometimes I catch myself slipping on typing. maybe it was a mistake to tell me your real name.
frenchie.
sydney
a rose by any other name would smell just as sweet

You think for a millisecond
it's a dream
that you were good
that you kept clean
that you didn't drown your depths
in drinks despair
that you didn't hold a needle to your vein
that you didn't slide a knife against your skin
that you didn't break and pull back your hair
as your stomach empties into pits unknown
that you will wake when reality once more blurs
to friends and love and silent judging whispers

~~
Where I stand
Hundreds of thousands of years,
I see
Among times, a time,
In the form of waves
repeatedly touch my feet on the shore

In one milliseconds
with the speed of light
I go to the back of time
response could kiss my ancestors forehead
Come back again
In front of you

I beg love to you
If you give
After a moment,
An angel carries me to Space
To learn the secrets of creation

I do not know where is the end of the road
not to return home
not even call you at all
But continuing with the dreams
Running from one end to the other end of the universe

Anywhere else in the thought
The outcome beyond what is love
Then Another bunch of waves
Seemed to push my feet again-
~~
@ Musfiq us shaleheen

the sunshine carries away those last remnants of you
motes of dust filled with you ride sunbeams out my windows
will i ever see you again
i can still taste you on my lips and in my mouth
i can still feel your hand on my knee as we tried to not die
we should have taken all that love and buried it
buried it in the ground along with our hopes and dreams
we should have never smiled those smiles
and laugh those laughs

we should never have...

Pictures are lazy ways of creating memories
Pictures only capture mere milliseconds
Memories formed in your head are so much better
You can play them through like movies for later dates
Never having to worry if you'll ever lose a copy or ruin it
Absorb as many memories as you can and only use pictures to amplify them

Lambasted by the bushwhacking shambles of potsherds burrowed beneath enchanted rhapsodies of sunken Earth lurks a might unleashed by the preemptive dirges of Heaven
Shattering the weight of mismeasure adaptive to apt remarks of conservatory stellar repartees gilded in the flombricks of insuperable gammon wed to the divorce between mammon and guardian treasure etched by revets of colorful nuance but colorblind fortitude chalky yet with scattered sound blinking in the wink of intelligentsia a thousand parsecs of understanding in milliseconds of orbit
The periphery of forgotten stars bereaved but informed of circular axioms of axiolative thermolysis bellowing stoked smokestack locomotives of hibernal clairvoyance dare to wonder beyond limited or enhanced pulchritude the denizens of thievery stolen in a flashbang grenade of a new Grenada of fustilugs gabbling in flushed rosy red tongues of frenzy or aplomb what lurks beyond centurion sentinels of robotic half-witted half-baked semi-cooked bludgeons of cruel insensate irony withheld by vulcanized drapes of curtailed curglaff fashioned by kneaded distance and suspended for heaved awakening at riometer’s knock barnstorming the crude churlishness of the foreign at trespass of the inane scaled down by infamies unstated and flanged to appropriate provisions of measure that conquest lurks behind recess and all is grafted from the callous pachyderm skin of absolution cozy to remedies but aloof from necessities of pang and Tang rollicking magpiety like a rotten pastime aged past its due.
Yet the batting average of the uncanny visitor undaunted by glaring photogenic record balks at precedent and aims to lollygag his chicanery roundhouse above the ricochet of enamor to whilded terminus at circular diamonds soaring illimitable skies boundaries to another nothing beyond the past of something worthy of pearls piggish in appetite for oysters to inhabit
Yet these cloistered vacuums between the pleonexia of the avarice of retches of chyme and the digestion of complete guarantors of shielded heterochrony wassail on dreams Titanic and sunken living repeatedly in revised stereodimensional waves of registry beyond fundus hijacked by towering dimensions ulterior to the profaned foresight of the wretched dimensions of reprehensible coteries belonging lost even when fetched by glimmers of the profound.
The riches of aberrant mobilized fleets swung into tether pole centripetal flictions of swarpollock surpassing credibility and peace surmounting mountebanks of petty finicky itches of cretaceous extinction mapped to qwersy frugal mathematical jokes recoiling at rebarbative manifest destiny belong to the records of soundracketeer trivialization of malleable gold fashioned from Whisky Bar encounters with goldmines ascertained in magic by the suspense of upholstered dramaturgy lurking beneath tall crestfallen visagists who toss and bandy about in tempests of curdacted flow emissary and envoy to flajousts emergent from the verdure of aboriginal machinery fumbled by human ergonomic chicanery espoused by asylum rather than touted as marksman prestige flippant by inordinate gavels ****** asunder into delignated copper-brass keys of foreboding prisons on sinking ships for counterfeit litanies of bogus warning meeting inclement poverty to a drawn sine in the sand vacillating on purpose but intransigent in declension.
Starlet gnashes of odontoloxia wavers of tangential tendentiousness escaping the orbit of enumeration by sly remarks surprising the elective prerogative for convergent autumn to skittish paces of fast-forward beating the brumal bears in their gelid lollygag reminders why the 2nd protects the 1st and the primacy of interposition is the immediacy of flexed muscular DeLoreans cavorting with fringes of unfurled destiny in flashbang instants between the space among malingered pauses among secondary waves of betrayal shift the curious rip tide of stretchgraves too ennobled for widescreen yet narrowly faint in their promontory illusions as mantelpieces of emblazoned scarlet A’s for nothing more than a tempestuous flair with stigma but simultaneously the realization of true dreamy blues escalating around tensions finessed into ****** before drooping into the droll 1850s as the balderdash of detriment belonging to the salvo of picturesque still-life expressionism dripping troudasque in antiquity with flairs of impertinence celebrated more by melodrama than by billows of industrial hinderbaggle toxic to the stated alarmism of trinkochre preventing treony by the warbles of songbirds hemmed in by bushwhacking galactic police forces of granted licentiousness for backbites in the feral canine drollery of aged literacy chosen over youthful foofaraw belittled by retches of attentive brevity rather than protracted obtuseness: neither ideal for the gravity of aborning centuries
Yet we dally in convergent esprit filibustering rhymed cadavers of cadence for prurience in ebullient parvenu damsels vacant from the setting but entranced by the galloping herds of buffalo formidable with warmth because of death and locomotive drive-by shootings Daphne wouldn’t miss.
Yet what Mission Impossible has a BioCyte worthy of henpecked ransom and detached villainy of a trespassed appendix bursting in the Young crowd much to the awakened dismay of the colored affront to black-and-white hubris finicky in oligochrome yet fainter yet than stellified bronteums burgeoning in generativity separated by inherent gulfs of heterochrony balking at submissions fished by loaves of interest in the hambasket of aswallone fractious to redshort individualism in the subhastation of Jurassic prowls of replication hibernal for millions of extinct permanence scowling only by the mandibles of crackjaw Samson yielding his jaunty hair to flummoxed Cutthroat Collapses trimming yardstick furloughs of pleckigger for demotic flavork above fishy warbles of tilted pretense vagrant to everybody simultaneously renowned for arrested cacophony but bridled by few examinations barnstorming teetotalers with haunted patrons of aged wine speaking redivivus in contemplation.
Measured glare radioactive to lizards beneath Mojo Grooves monikers fielding “fly away” as transcendental harpsichord anagrams filter through lavaderos of hackneyed nockerslugs berating illusion for conflation in the influx of dacoitage among Vikings who swim flanked by sonic blares of innocuous dolphins floating dead by the carnage of bloated whales and ridiculous spates of welter above conscience ragged with tetherball futility.
Sparring with engastrimyths sapping the sapwood of sappy banality for toonardical lullabies that pacify opposition more than the Pacific is internecine to volcanic tirades of seismotic jolts of burgeoned awakening I vanquish petty sneakthievery with the unspoken power of a Tweed that masquerades not on ******* but on virtual rhymes cascading throwaway brown-brick fifties collapse on Dagon armed with gnashing poise against guttural gubbertushed victimized flippant fantasias arrayed to brook the decrepit streams of my elevated retinue for staged intrepid barnstorms against phony assassinations to prove petty Edison powerhouses clairvoyant in even their specious participles of quantum irony decisive in fliction marveling at sensible conveyor belt beltways infested by sluggards of inferior hives contrary to every inclination of self-edified skyscraper invented by the mettle of industrious man
So swanky in boast but gingerly in insightful discretion I careen ping-pong victories into a plevisable fortune of Bubba Gump wealth and Fortune Magazine ostentation as the ringleader in Barnum’s neutered circus that never spays a single sword of creation in the barnacles of progeny and progress frogmarched by cruelty and vehement in suppositions of craven popinjay popples of a whangam metropolitan artifice tinsellated with angles of trim prance above suburban ecstasy in transcendent flash and peerless reaches of stratosphere above mundane plaid macaroni witeless in the sterling grace of foreign domestication of livable conditions abiding by aborning stardom.
Harriet Tubman flowers on the bedside of ****** seances of 70’s Parisian cafes gerrymandered by hobohemias of herculean heft squaring account with encompassed brevity in byword dazes with ***** futures yet to court the cordial consensus in dodged drafts of fumiduct riots bailing upon New York Time for 44th street colored incineration of an orphaned Africa embodied in a totemic titan with reninjuble peerless majesty compromised by a frapplank in immodest incisive harpricks of fumbled swerves against the original proclamations anniversary to Boston Indians revolting against Manifest Destinies magnified in incidental clarity by bestowed churches fuming with rampant clairvoyance tamed by the grisly realism of intermittent thaumaturgy swaddled by the reconnaissance of eventual warps blistering in milliseconds to overturn the ultimate row that the mire always wades through in impoverished egestuous profligate convenience of hamstring declension against chary mettle in scruples by elementary riddles in precise junctures of sanctity the bodewash of slick partisan gibes of a puppet show vampire avenging Sarah Marshall. Harriet Tubman is an overblow of subniveal pickets of defensive clarity to immemorial churlish katzenjammer of a protracted flux capacitor dynamos in abolished feral groves of bohemian legend rather than ignoble rhapsody flirting with apartheid’s chosen engineers whittling an indelible scourge of hatred rather than a revived simian immunity scalded with potboilers of sveldtang water scorching like Helsinki after Stockholm goes up in conflagration over bonanza of wednongue dative duress in impregnated purpose skanky with ministered drivel of doytined attempts to flicker a switch exorcised by the integrity of neuroscience besides an intransigence of exuberant interruption of warped logics of pataphysical coarse arenas for submerged vapid Yellow Belly Pie Slingers aimed at 7/11.
Broadside bruisers aim at fracked 80s heyday like a Hey Bulldog reminiscence on a quaint suburban joke of alien freebooters in Franc Swiss gloss swanky on the spot of frapplanks endless in retired liturgy of surpassed peace amicable to truces among the pragmatica of checkerboard pastries willful in array backing sentinels from rearguard hindsight to flank the motatory missiles of target from ransom built like fortress of immutable graves lost to the celerity of the outpaced spectral wonder of teenage flights and hegiras into recessive parsecs enamored by a stage-fright of recocted astral wonders plasma to the ears of a strange foreign abode hospitable to most heaved alacrity sidewinding into effigy and the crumples of used demise recycled twice by intrinsic spirituel flocks of engulfed eagles spooning the pristine littoral waters of precision in nexility
Stayin’ Alive cackles resound in the hallowed furrows of a neat daydream in a scattershot imagination screaming to make myths sticky pigment rather than imbroglios of intaglio filibustering cohesive firm firmaments flexing with windfall at princely surprises cobbled from chocolate-box chariots of brisk elation shoveled by the conglomerate of prim-looking star-crossed unbuttoned snoozes with glamour in the corsair sojourn beyond the space emergent from stardust tinsel and glowered vindication of self-engineered huffs of vulpine vainglory touted as preeminent above dodgy 70s swerve in the vibrant kantikoys of covert tenure and flickers of swandamo glitterati borne of triumphant dimples on immaculate refraction.
Yet lingering on the precipice of aboriginal unity in disjointed sejungible frames of vernal restive residence decaying with anthill colonies of demarche the cadence lost to gyrovague trinkets balks from corridors of Pacific  Avenue peace that is the cardinal to the priests feasting on militias of rentgourge evicted from their own leash of lease ruffled in the plumage of horizontal margins folded into origami zenkidu gullible on Raptor estrangement chained to the rhythms of parsed sparse rumbles of the rhombos without a complexion intended for sparkled starlets doomed to regular tides in swollen tsunamis of soft-spoken surrealism the providence of aimed dreams of drastic marvels beloved to impregnate a verdant cadence latent by faltered seamstress elopes flickering for caress in the duress of finesse.
The quaint drawl of scrabbled runes of rumbled rumination streaks like a quivered acerbic winsome peacock jagged in the parlance of henpecked peak beyond the reach of the highest teacher that ever had the privilege of tutelaries spawned born to teach in Steppenwolf rhythms of rugged heavy metal impeachment yet ripe enough to preach. The last juggernaut is vile bereaved of yets to become the blemish on risky flambeaus overrun by crackles fuzzy in written retch for sudden bursts of volcanic speech.
In the quagmires of serrated heavy leaps I stroke the frazzle as the choir reaps the grim proclamation gilded by sentinels of majestic Challenger Deep burrowing tunnels of coltish ploy dilettante to all his curated adoration that toys with the children of majestic modesty ever so fractious as to balk at the priggish calumny of retinues of the tired coy rampant in emasculated spayed days of stranglehold filigree geometry bent on noisome bleats prone to annoy
So I leapfrog the redundant hackencrude fawn of gripping spectacles of alpenglow summits on acid at dawn foaming with betrothed pumice on borrowed past from potentiated future belonging once to a man yet always bred to prefer fairer damsels sprinkled with a hint of germane Soy saucy to the Bossy promenade to an Islander born and bred.
Guilt like Gravity gilded into spacious trailblazed glory sent seminal and said loudly bowdlerized the pasture of hidden thickets in sparse backwater chavish remanded by fisticuffs of elapse travail in artistry fundamental to rhapsody in distant milky affection jangling high plaudits of auditoriums of the delicate audit bulldozing fraudsters colored by defected records set ablaze in seminal disco becoming cordial homes for shaken residue blushing in crude crass mass the inertia of the classy beyond recognition without flashbang clashes of cultural class glimmering to faltered waterdrips of palatial mischief in correct lens for froward recalcitrance of jittery stash hidden in dacoitage by the police that knelt on incinerated livelihood predicated on chauvinist cash for departed untouchable caste of radical haste too blinkered for internet barnstorms limited only to lurid copy-and-paste regimented for revolution damaged by the loneliest orchestra of refineries of an alien taste.
We crack skulls against ossified hulls riveted weakly to iceberg submarine bulge battled in wars past always to suppress greater travesty yet divulged that Barbarosa was an insider coup expunged by remonstrance against finicky postulate brayed from deranged heirs to a disease of relish quartered by blue danger dancing with shadowed emancipation librettos finkly in tripwire terms of routed inefficacy killjoy to seanced second guess prisms of rootless flimsy accusation wagered by pathetic overstatement in hypenstance trimmed by the crimson paint of a glowering silk woven from dramaturgy belittled by grasp if not by locomotive passerby pause wicked by subversion inclined not to dismay by oriented by nefarious rage of flagrant hapless scrimshanks in prowess sued by process and refined by progress never erased by a five-second glower by the sentinels of parlance intrepid by desiccation to supervised superstition bemused by abundant gray twists of turnverein pillory.

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Sitting inside a cloud of shisha--
with subtle hints of strawberry shimmying
through the midnight moonlight,
the incandescent embers
radiate from their core
forming ancient runic shapes
reminding me of a time beyond the concept of before....

when elders spoke with ashes in their words
traveling to worlds within looking through
the windows to each other's souls
where the rhythm of a heartbeat
and the melody of breathing cacophonously echos
through our gray matter canyons.
A time when millennia passed by in milliseconds
as everyone danced like a flame grinding on a candle wick
wailing with ecstasy--
every bead of sweat slithering from head to feet
arousing like a maddening kundalini explosion--
a honey-like nectar glowing throughout our body
pouring out of us brilliantly brighter than any white-hot sun!

I think
this might be a reason for my fascination
when it comes to inhaling fire--
despite my earth-natured tendencies
I'm still hypnotized by the first gift to mankind;
light.

Times New Roman reminds me of a time when I knew that romance was not dead because I got to hold it in my hand 
 
The curve of the characters reminds me of the uneven curve of your cupids bow

The claustrophobic clustering of vowels reminds me of the cringe worthy cling of your foggy glass  frames stuck to mine, failing sight feeding failed intimacy

The simplicity of each symbol reminds me of the systematic sufficiency with which you seduced me in so few words,
 the straightforward soliloquy with which you struck me and bereft me of my sanity.

The length of each letter reminds me of the longevity of our last embrace
Lanky limbs looped laterally to the length of my body for literal milliseconds

The overuse in overdue essays typed in early hours of the morning reminds me of the overuse of three words and the emptiness and lack of effort behind them, 

Submitting those three words for a good grade and a pat on the back, coming up short because professor and princess alike saw through the inability to do
With meaning,
That your words had no feeling.

The fact that though I've faced fancier fonts and fell for them fanatically, I always return to the first, reminds me that though a fair few have found more than friendship in my fragile forearms that the first is the forever 
and if at times the former 
then always the future

the finest font I've ever found is you

awry, askew,
the poetry comes badly, clawing,
life as well, faring poorly,
the obvious linkage stinkage
allows a milliseconds smile,
a brief fiefdumb accolade of
distress confirmation

DH Lawrence appears in the  inbox,
he too, awry, askew,
tufts of wool clouding life like dust,
rust and must, an old friendship renewed,
the cold ex and in-eternal suggest
frequent naps and hibernation,
so much so that this script was
commenced and committed years ago
and lay forlornly in the ***** snow
fallow and shallow drafts from prior years

To every season there is a turn,
a turning of the *****,
yet the hacking cough from focculent dust on the floor of the world
fills the lungs continuously, knows no respite,
the spittle and the phlegm ejected herein,
a disarming poem of dissatisfaction, alas, alas,
the dust thickens and is not lessened

~for Medusa daughter~

if my head weren't attached
i'd lose it in seconds.

no. milliseconds.

my head is more like
a beautiful bouquet of balloons
i hold tightly with both hands

when i'm doing too good
i get so excited that

WHOOPS!

i let them all go.

and then i'm jumping
like a ******* idiot
trying to gather them all.

but they float away fast
and i'm still jumping
while others tell me,
"it's okay, they always come back...
well, after you f i n a l l y calm down."

but i can't calm down
i lost my balloons.

of course, eventually, they do come down.
deflated and strings tangled
(or missing)

i gather them
try to untangle and repair them
and hold on tightly
with both hands
once again.

My mum tells me to be careful as I close the front door
Every footstep the tick of a bomb about to go off
And I know that she will worry until she hears me return
That maybe this time I wasn’t careful enough
But I know Careful
Careful is a woman who walks in our skin when the door shuts behind us
Faceless and watchful
With keys jammed between each finger
And her honey voice is flowing through a perpetual conversation with the home screen of her phone
Her gait wide and her hood up,
hair down but tucked away
She never looks up
only shifts her eyes from left to right on a pendulum trajectory determined to read the cadence of the shadows
Like they are palms or tea leaves or a CCTV in operation sign on the front of a shop window
On the walk home
She is always moving
A waterfall rushing down the steepest drop to get back home with all her foundations in tact
Careful is always waiting for the other shoe to fall
She is texting texting texting details of her plans
Where she has been
where she is going
what is the license of the taxi she is in
Are the doors locked as soon as she shuts them?
How salty is too salty for a margarita or a tequila or a glass of water
Can anyone vouch for the milliseconds that her drink was out of her sight?
She has a  pair of earphones attached to nothing jutting from her ears
and her key clawed hands wrapped tightly around a can of pepper spray
And her car is parked right outside the building
Careful is always a woman living in a war zone
where the enemies can be the ones that she has trusted most
Or strangers that cast long shadows
She is a landmine that is always in danger of being stepped on
She is made into a three star salad that the jury reject because she was underdressed
Overexposed like the photos that Careful should never have sent
Because even she knows that she cannot exist
A woman is always careful
But never careful enough.

Life flew by in the blink of an eye
That is, my life with you
4 months or 4 seconds
I can no longer tell the difference

Tick tock

1 Mississippi
I'm entranced by your eyes
Writing poems of melted chocolate
Does my name fit with yours
How perfect our life will be

Tick tock

2 Mississippi
I've never felt the way I feel
When you look at me that way
Like I'm a fish, on a rod that you reel
I could never leave your side
And you could never leave mine
But I'm afraid
Scared to death
Of what the future will bring
You say to trust you but I just don't know how, but I'm ready to open to you

Tick tock

3 Mississippi
You get better everyday
It's all down hill from the first kiss they say
But to me that was a bold faced lie
You're arms wrap around me
Filling a gap I never knew was there
No longer do I fear
You are me
And I am you

Tick tock

4 Mississippi
We are getting so close
Ready to be soul mates
But as the milliseconds tick by
It's starts to open my eye
When you say this
I say that
Maybe we aren't that right
Suddenly
You hugging me
Doesn't feel the way that
It should be
And as the clock strikes four seconds
Our life is over
Because I cut it, ended it
And wether it be our life or yours
It seems all the same
Since I feel like I'm standing now
Over the body of the boy I killed

Tick tock
Goes the broken clock

5 Mississippi
The rest of the world
Counts on
As I lay
Broken
Haunted by your endless echo
Why?
Yet deep down
I know one things true
We were never a five second thing

Most of the time,
I find it difficult to harvest
the proper words from the curve of my neck
where the skin dips down
and shakes hands with my chest.  
The fine hairs raise and fall,
the color of wheat,
exhaling what others want and inhaling what I need.
In,
out,
in,
out.
Using my primitive tools,
I rip
the necessary parts of speech
from my throat
and use the so called precious arterial mud
that is equatable to manure
to fertilize my lungs
so that although I am dead,
my voice
is
not.

Sometimes,
I can pluck
proper phrases
from my eyebrows;
I can hunt them
through the tall grass that sits
upon my livid plains.
I imagine my pencil
is a spear
and try not to look
when the graphite
pierces their pure bodies,
killing the meaning
as yet another mediocre artist
paints them upon the lines of his notebook,
wounding
the effect words have on the world
because if they are used too often,
they mean nothing at all.

Occasionally,
my ink pen
forms a circle of deep blue
into which I can cast my line
and retrieve the perfect letter from a sea of ephemeral pieces.
I am merely part
of a larger industry
that traps
the delicate curves
of spines
and sharp points
of serifs
nestled between ascenders
and shoulders
into nets
made from blue lines on bleached paper.  
I desperately cling
to the descenders
that hang past the edge of the cliff
because by God I will not die
even if it means shooting something as beautiful as that
which I rely on to keep me afloat.

However,
there are times,
when that is too much effort -
too much exertion required of my small, inadequate equipment,
I am left
to abandon the ink-laden sea,
to discard my fields of words and phrases
in search
of a way
to pull the plug
at the bottom of the bathtub in my brain
and watch as the opaque,
grimy,
filth-ridden water circles
around
and
around,
exposing things
I never knew were there.  
In those milliseconds
where the contaminants drain away
and there is complete transparency,
I find what I am looking for
before I am even certain
what I needed in the first place.

That’s the complication of staying up at these early hours of the morning.
These early hours are when your mind is most naked, when your heart is bare, and your body numb. You hear the rain pouring down, and you look outside your window, and stare at the droplets falling, you think about what It must feel like to drown in the inescapable water, it quenches your thirst yes, but at some point you would have enough of the water coming down on you. There’s a point where the water fills your intestines, it soaks every part of you until your practically drowning. But then the rain starts to fade, and all you hear are the drops falling from the roof onto the cement. You watch slowly in those milliseconds from the time the drop falls to the cement, and the cement consuming the drop, until it’s practically non - existent. And in a short amount time, the whole sound of rain becomes non - existent to a point where you forget that it rained, and the only evidence left is the dark, grey sky above, that within time will fade as well.

m.d.

we are milliseconds away from mortality, you and i,
your impending doom hanging over like suspense and the ghost
of your touch
lingers longer than zeus, hurts harder than your voice
the day is yet to break and the time
is a hair’s breadth between now and forever,
when the sun strikes you down i will fall with you
but for now, let us lie like gods in this space we call home;
wrists against wrists and teeth sinking into skins

Deny we the possibility of order
Ignore we an Outside Law
Suggest we an endless possibility
Worlds without end
Positions simultaneous
Moving in all directions or none
Claim we the future as ours

Defy we realities of law external
Look we inward-outward simultaneously
To become one or none or all
Reject a single story
Saw we the Arms from Truth
Reduce we the Other to I

Forget we the order of Universes
Without-Within
The clockwork structures
Atomic
Celestial
Genetic
Physical
Biological
In and or-ganic

Reorder or Retell we the Cyclical Tales
Birth and Rebirth
Seasons and Times
Journeys of stars swirling through space
Endless flights of planets
Endless migrations of living things
Each rhyming to universal rhythms
Watts and amperes circular-linear mysteries
Predicting futures from their undisputed histories

Deny we external truth
Held here in the gracious grasp of gravity
Warmed gently by a tolerant star
Inhabitants of a universe
Unable to explain itself
Or even how its atoms came
To repel and to attract
In perfect tensions
Or to unleash energies
Predictable and measurable
In milliseconds and millenniums

---------------------------

Marionettes macabre
Cut loose from our strings
Dancing slowing dirges
Proclaiming opening spaces
Beneath closed skies
Denying a Maker
Rejecting hymnody to sing
Ditties laden with lies.

i fell in love with a writer. i will forever be in her world, even way past her death. i don't exactly know why i fell in love, or how i managed to do so, but i do know that i am perfectly okay with doing so. sometimes, when she looks at me, i am able to picture myself in her bed on my worst nights, and she by my side, holding me the entire time as i shake with fear and anxiety. and somehow, in those milliseconds when i look into those unkept swimming pools of eyes, i get lost and i forget who i am. she knows me like the map of veins on the inside of her wrists; she fathoms me in an unexplainable kind of way, more than anyone else, honestly. my sentences are not making any sense but i really dont care. i know she will read this. i know because i am purposely going to send her this link and she is going to let her eyes travel over each word that is typed.

okay let me start over.

how do you tell someone that they are all you want? that the dreams give you a craving that must be eventually put into words so they could possibly be put into action? i probably do not know what i am talking about. i went insane looking for her. i guess a part of me will always be insane, regardless of whether or not she plays a part in it. but, i do know this: i want her to be. i want her to drive me insane and i want her to push me to my limits. i dont want to just feel love for her. i want it all. i want the hate, the tears, the heartbreak, the pain, the joy, the angst, the lust, the melancholy, the happiness, everything. i want every emotion that comes with being in love with her. i want the hell, the heaven, and the purgatory. i want the planets in her veins and i want the constellations that linger on the edge of her lips so that every time i kiss her, i taste galaxies and nebulas. i want every ******* metaphor. i want every ******* reality. i dont know, i want so much; i am putting myself out here for her and i still dont even fully fathom whether or not she wants the same. i mean, i think she does? maybe, maybe not. it is yet another mystery i must learn to solve over time. i cannot go two feet without bumping into some piece of her. when i go out to get coffee, i imagine her sitting in that café right next  to me, reading a book she bought for fifty cents at a yard sale. i can imagine her in the most obscure places; walking next to me in the grocery store, staring at the puppies through the window of the pet shop on main street, in the mall with me dying to try the new hot chocolate at starbucks, buying cheap shampoo at the dollar store because we are going on some sort of three day adventure to anywhere. i see her everywhere. i feel her everywhere. i crave her everywhere. and this letter may make me seem out of my mind, but oh ******* well.
some things we dont talk about. we simply dont have to. i think that there is a mutual understanding between us for some things. to be honest, i didn't only fall in love with a writer. i fell in love with someone who holds many titles: lover. poet. dreamer. thinker. listener. talker. adventurer. brand new day. she is so much. she is an arbutrary holiday that is dying to be celebrated. her bones are filled with wanderlust, and she makes a mean hot cocoa. there is always a lovely way to look at her. even the distance between us is equally as beautiful as the distance between stars.

she is the perfect combination of subtle and mysterious, all while making it seem as though she is an open book waiting to be read by the loveliest pair of brown eyes. she is a universely misunderstood paradox, and she has the capability of making you think twice about what you are going to say, even without opening her mouth. she is a foreign film so full of incomprehensible words, yet you can fathom everything about her if you actually take the time to get to know her. she can make you fall for her just by closing her eyes and making a wish at 11:11pm. she makes you contemplate the meaning of life, and she can paralyze you all while batting one eyelash. she is the feeling of a warm blanket on a cold december night, and she is the cool breeze that caresses you on a humid july afternoon. she is that new song you hear in the coffee shop but will never know the name of, even though you will spend innumerous nights searching for it on the internet and in record stores. and oh god, if only she had the oppertunity to see herself from my perspective- she would fall in love with herself just as easily as i did for her. for she has never encountered a love like this likewise of squeezing into last year's prom dress. every single day, she will make my heart beat indefensibly faster and faster. and she will continually wonder why i fell for her, and eventually she will understand why it was simply her who occupied my vacant heart even though my bed was preoccupied by broken promises and empty words. she gazes at me skeptically, yet understandingly. and i will never stop trying to let her know that i ******* love her until it is nothing short of crystal clear. i will never get used to her; she changes over time and so do her thoughts and emotions and perspectives and opinions. i will never fully fathom her, but god knows i will ******* try. and every single day, i will love her more than the last. and she will continually wonder why i dedicate so much to her, for her, and about her. the entire ******* world knows about her. she is all i ever write about lately, and it soothes yet annoys me at the same time because she is always on my mind. i have waited a lifetime for her to love me, and i would patiently wait another if it meant that she will one day be the first eyes that i see when i wake up on sunday mornings.
god only knows what is hiding in her weak and fragile heart, in those glassy and lost eyes. and although she has the tendency to change her religions, it does not lessen the fact that she the universe in her soul.

so this is my letter about the girl i fell in love with. she is the only girl i have ever fallen for, and she has made me see the world from a different perspective. and i cannot even thank her for giving me the oppertunity to become like this. i dont know, maybe i am insane, but all the great artists were; hemingway, einstein, twain, poe, cobain, the list goes on and on.

maybe this time things will be better than they were.
maybe this time you can be the girl i write about who sneaks into my bedroom late at night to spend even five minutes together.
maybe you can be that girl who admires me from afar.
maybe you can be that girl who writes love letters to me and drops it off anonymously at my house at ten in the morning, and once i read it i already know who it is from by your handwriting.
maybe this time you will fall harder and deeper for me than you did before.
maybe this time we will find peace,
and maybe this time every single memory of ours that we make will last for decades.


i love you.*


{m.j.}

Your body took mine on a slow dance, slow motion
four days milliseconds stopped to whistle.
You, in my ear too, with your songs of the weather:
we meet the hurricane with camellia headbands
to water from left to right. Some of your
vessel had fell into mine – it buoyed, that naked sea.

I only knew about your skin and bones
how it bubbled when burned, a bacteria bathtub
and that your eyes became less than caramel
rather a stern grey. I gathered sand.
It made you a beach devastated by summer squalls.  

Next morning, a fog was caught in my throat –
thieved from those red-veined orbs.
The sheets said you tossed and turned while I dreamt
but I still awoke to your lips coupling my neck.

Lovers do not walk or limp, you maintained
and so there was a waltz beneath rain – time paused
as we sped up but the tide did not stop crashing.

It turns out, - like hands, like pages turning, -
That I am more petrified of everything
Than you could ever comprehend.
I suppose it's the waves crashing in my lungs,
Or baron wasteland kissing the tip of my nose,
Even more, it could be the death touch
Whispering its mermaid lures to me inside my heart.
Expectedly it could be the curse of gangrene winding it's way around my toes
As a result of standing stagnant in this town for far too many milliseconds.
But the crippling hunch is I have many places to be, a heart to give,
Myself to mend, myself to mend,
Shard by thumb pricking shard
I am rebuilding who I breathe to be
And with a time span the size of a spec of dust
On the geological time scale.