it

It’s room smelled like lollipops and it’s questions were more watery than not
when you morphed into my fantasy I could’ve kissed you from relief
Like a nonsense driven lullaby or a quantity-bound quality-chart
you made up words that hugged my cavities and I made love, fucked quizzically, the notion of your nature
humming in our communal drapery
your sheets wrapping our Greek heroism in a shadowy monotony
I always knew you had to be just around the corner
problem was, I couldn’t figure out which corner.

really?

"really?"
"yup."

she twirled the letters in her mouth like beaujolais and sipped on the atmosphere as if it was the bottle of chianti that she couldn't afford from the top shelf.

"you disappear a lot."
"yup."

all the remembrances came back to her at an alarming speed, and she labeled herself as a Mason Jar like the quarantined, non-admittance, under-aged faker that she was when they first met. 

"will you pretend like you missed me when you see me again?"
"yup."

6,5,2 days left until they m-m-made a memory inside each other's incisors, re-sizing, integrating all the outskirts, and in skirts, until there wasn't another k-k-kiss that they could hold back.

"you could tell me all of it back."
"nah."

figures.

risen

In between every pulse, my blood sings your name. 

I won’t ever be able to give you everything

But I can write you a lot of poems 

and kiss you when the clock strikes

1:01

and 1:01.1

and 1:01.2

I’ll make my bed into a cloud for you

to cry about the little things you never told to 

anybody

neverbody

nobody

everbody

everynobody

And you can show up on my pillow when I’m fast asleep

and I will wake up with a smile for your

CO2 emissions are more lovely than the 

oxygen of every tree

and every leaf

and every little piece of grass that can make

fingers into whistles 

and tune up the saturation on the memories of your smile

I’ll paint your windows during nighttime

while you’re reading a book about the philosophy of butterflies

so that when you awaken

the sunshine will make a stained glass mosaic on your

porcelain skin and you’ll realize

that you’ve been

art

to me all along

As you hum along to a peaceful riot

remembering the dos and don’ts of karmic reverence

my brain waves keep with the rhythm of your questions 

so that my body manufactures

— in it’s hormonal expulsions — 

wannabe answers

I’ll tinker with the locks until every door is more open than not 

on the path way that brings you

to here

Ancestral Forest

Your name is the kind of word that poets say softly to themselves as they scribe it on paper.
And the quicker your sandy being slips through my hourglass, the stormier the skies become as I cease in my ability to reckon with the roundness of the roads.
Burying myself in the crannies between rose petals, growing into winter glory on the outside of your window, where your fireplace turns your skin an amber gold, and the reflection of the moon upon my hair gives me steel silver slices on the crevices on my cheeks.
The slightest breeze could knock you over onto the empty plains of the American past. No closure for a period made up of people wishing they were older than the magazine's paper binding.
Celsius or Fahrenheit, you'll always be cooler than me, and I'll never be hotter than you.
Paris was dominated by a Marxist-Freudian-Nietzchian paradigm. Your ballot was taped to the wall of your living room, upon which you had written VOID and scribbled a poem about someone who had forgotten you exist.
Is this a poem about someone who has forgotten I exist?

Does everyone have an ancestral forest? Because if we do, I think my tree was planted next to yours and that, really, I have no choice. My branches can't help but reach for your leaves until the last sun has set on over the last ocean on the West.

Tongue Tied

The dust was flying through the sun streaming through the window as she tipped her bed to the side. It slid out like it wanted to be found, all orange and dusty, faded because of the time she had forced past. She didn't remember anymore why she kept it at all, and the way that it had begun to deteriorate, it seemed as though the world hated the way she was then almost as much as she does now. The noises of the room were hot and sticky, and her fingers felt their way onto the pages easily, muscle memory, like seconds ago she tucked it underneath her sleeping body, tears streaming down her face. The pages fell easily, all worn and over-worked, limp and flexible, an old pair of shoes that have molded to the shape of your walk.
She flipped through, her eyes scanning through the words she used to use, her lips stringing into a smile for the way that her mind had attempted to find solace in the middle of the inky circles and coffee stains.
But her heart couldn't take the way your handwriting filled up the middle page. She could see it all so clearly, the way that you held the pen with your eyes closed, writing out of your mouth instead of your mind. She never let anyone touch that notebook before you. Not after you either.

"For every day that you want to be my first cigarette, I want to call you bella. Every night."

She remembered why she kept it all these years. With a sad smile, she slid it back under her mattress to be found again someday. Until then, she would hold your words like a prayer and hope that you might come back to prove it all true.
She couldn't believe you, but she couldn't believe either that you'd lie.

strikethrough

I let myself be caught by your corners
where I sit next to the doll you lost in second grade
and the confetti from New Year's Eve circa 1999.

There's only kindness from the forgotten,
lade with appreciation for recognition of a smile
from the shell-self you're giving out now,
who mumbles words and phrases on repeat
hoping nobody notices.

Oneiric musings let my minutes slowly pass
until you pass
and we hold our breath,
the doll, the confetti, the dust, and I,
to see.

What I wouldn't give to know what you thought of me then
if you thought of me then
when
your clouds were cotton candy and the Seine
was warmed sugar butter and you bothered to lend
out your paperclips to make art instead of words.

Trace me wantonly and burn your calendar until messages are optional and impermanent.

her prayer

There's no such thing as chance;

She saw God reflected in all the shimmering words of the morning

and when she asked for an escape from the troublesome quarantine of her mind, it fell into her pockets like loose change that might have been there all along.

My flight was delayed for rain on a sunny afternoon and I happened to meet my soul mate in the time I spent perusing the magazines, wishing I was flying. 

She couldn't wait to tehila and halal until her mouth when dry and her bones were bare and she was giving more than she had to an ultimate she didn't understand.

In the name she still has trouble spelling, she prays.