And then,
As the moon glowed in the distance,
casting my shadow against the nearest wall
and the rain continued to pitter patter against my roof,
creating soft, iridescent music to my ears,
and the street light began to flicker,
placing a darkened shadow against my sullen face,
I began to realize
that our existence,
all high and mighty that it is,
isn't so bright and fabulous after all.
And that we are all just a tiny blip
in the existence of time.

That dark patterned line
crossing straight the moon,
centering the frozen sphere-gate
of a misty autumn night-sky,
is not a cloud to sink down on only
and float subtly for a while
< so I can feel the aura of your skin mixing with the mine >
but it is also a five line staff
and tells me an aurally perceived absolute secret so that ,
through my hearing ,
you will
rise,
glide,
twirl
and cross
other lines,
tune my gaze
and engrave a mystic score beyond your shine,  
plant each of  ‘you’s,
note by note,
in ones, halves, fourths, eighths , sixteenths and ‘pi’s
in the heart of each
<beyond the clouds away from my reach>
twinkling star  

so that anyone that could look up with a heart,
<maybe on a clear night sky>
would see a commencing song-
singing the dance of an ever weaving light-story
visible to those eyes with a knowing only that
<the knowing about a wish is
a wish that shall eternally be kept a secret>
has the enlightening technology to recreate a reflecting galaxy
with an authentic memory
that expands infinitesimally
<which we in our terms would say it expands by love
but in truth would not really know how
unless the terms are lost and we have got no time except to  > - be now-
be now
be now with me now
and now and only now
be now and with me now
and only now and now

Would you come and meet me then?
there?  
but I don’t know where… just there?
wherever all these sky lookers are
and be one of them, again ?  as we did once– on a terrace
one summer night, we watched our own story under stars,  among crowds while I asked for your light and you kissed me awake for eternity and so
would you let me kiss you this time - one more time
just for the last time  and forget that eternity  eternally this time?

As we lay here,
Lost in our melodic laughs.
I can't help but stare into your eyes.
I can see galaxies hidden into them.
I get this overwhelming urge to move closer,
I want to know you,
I need to know you.
Your smell reminds me of soft flowers,
Its more addictive than *******,
And I swear I'm getting higher than an astronaut could ever dream.
I have always been a lover of the night,
But your smile captivates me more than the moon and all the stars ever could.
So as I'm walkin in the dark tonight,
Looking up at the moon,
The only thought on my mind is you.
So as I'm singing loud,
I sound like a wolf howling to the moon.
For I know that I am an animal,
And anything I touch with my teeth,
I will surely destroy..
So I know I must let you go,
But I will still sing to you at twilight,
With the hope lifting my heavy heart,
That you might hear my song to you..
~P.S.

Under my bowels, yellow with smoke,
it waits.
Under my eyes, those milk bunnies,
it waits.
It is waiting.
It is waiting.
Mr. Doppelganger.  My brother.  My spouse.
Mr. Doppelganger.  My enemy.  My lover.
When truth comes spilling out like peas
it hangs up the phone.
When the child is soothed and resting on the breast
it is my other who swallows Lysol.
When someone kisses someone or flushes the toilet
it is my other who sits in a ball and cries.
My other beats a tin drum in my heart.
My other hangs up laundry as I try to sleep.
My other cries and cries and cries
when I put on a cocktail dress.
It cries when I ***** a potato.
It cries when I kiss someone hello.
It cries and cries and cries
until I put on a painted mask
and leer at Jesus in His passion.
Then it giggles.
It is a thumbscrew.
Its hatred makes it clairvoyant.
I can only sign over everything,
the house, the dog, the ladders, the jewels,
the soul, the family tree, the mailbox.

Then I can sleep.

Maybe.

Leaving home is no longer exiting the address attached to my paperwork.
The walls that contain my childhood are a time capsule full of spoiled memories.
The bedroom where I prayed away scary monsters is now a skeleton of myself with transplanted hobby attempts by my mother.
The rearranging of furniture, the shifting of pictures, the emptiness of space and claustrophobic piles of clutter in the closets push me outside.
Outside, where the trees grew with me and kept me shaded while my imagination transformed the branches into jungles or utopian planets ruled by female playmobile.
My mother laments at the clutter and space we hoard while my father would be happy as long as his tools are untouched.
Leaving home is like entering into a comma, and every time I wake up I've lost another memory.

One time a friend came over and she showed me her poetry.
She had two notebooks.
one for positive writing
and one for negative.
The negative notebook had a gratuitous amount of writing in it compared to the positive one.
She told me that when the negative notebook gets full she was going to **** herself.
There were six pages left.
I tore the last one out and said,
"well, now it will never be full."
I still have that blank page,