you asked.

Falling into nostalgia hit her like a tidal wave, all blackened with the stench of commuter traffic and miserable awakenings. She really shouldn't have been able to be happy at all, but her overly-aged soul had the habit of picking up right where it left off every single time. She had a thousand book marks holding a thousand sentences in her mind, all ripe for the taking, ready to sweep her off her feet once more. Maybe her thumb nails would eventually fall off, for all of her mindless biting had worn every single one of her cells down to the bone; or maybe she would publish a book and fall into the lap of the luxurious side of sadness, where people would blog about quotes she never said and set pictures of her photoshopped perfection as their secret wallpaper. She would be the four fingers up, pull down quick kind of mystery. She would be the sticky tongues, smelling of sin kind of memory. She would be the wide eyed, closed lips, burned in the back of your eyelids kind of inspiration. They would all remember how her legs had been so silky that one night, and how, underneath the cigarettes, she had tasted like cherries and childhood. A lot of people would fall into nostalgia with her, but when she ends up alone, nobody is going to claim in the slightest to be surprised.

t h e b u l l

smoketastedlikeoxygen

yourhairwasgrowingintomyskin

withoutquestioning

youreffortstobe

anopeninginasafe

becauseyouneversleep

withoutdreamingof

thingsyoulost

amilliontearsago

youshouldtrytobealittleclearer

because

speakingwithyoufeelslikereadingwordswithoutspaces

andeventuallyifigureout

but

bythenthesunsetrosebackintothesky

andyouhavemovedonagain

thenagain

itseemsasifyourtoxicityistheonlythingcapableofbringingmeback

becausecoffins

areso

overrated

maybeyouaretoo

butitcertainlydoesnot

seemlikeittome

thenagain

iambiased

toward

yourmirroredsmileandyourwindchimes

yourlaugh

imeant

iwanttofindaforestinyoursentences

whereyourwordsmean

biblicalthings

like

moseswasacooldude

likeyou

or

itturnsoutiwaswrong

youprobablydonotwanttosaythatone

but

youcanifyouwant

mixingallthelettersaroundhelpsmewhenigetsad

tryitnexttimeyoucry

thencallme

hymn

He liked the way that she liked the way his eyes liked to watch her eyes scan the pages of her book. When the room had warmed up to just enough for her neck to bead slightly and for her breathing to heighten just enough to be audible by the chair beside her, he would meander by in the hopes that her arm would catch his leg or that they would speak. She asked about his day. He forgot to ask back. But he knew how to make a cappuccino and she liked to get caffeine drunk on the sight of his sensual tongue rubbing against his lips. There was something about his innocent voice that made it seemed like the sounds she could illicit from him when he finally asked her down might almost be inappropriate. It didn't stop her from wanting to, though. She was waiting for the right time of night, with the right music, and the right cup sitting on the right table, and then she would climb on the back of his bicycle and show him what it felt like to feel her.

But it was the wrong time. She's never been too timely.

Books

While we were fucking in the sticky bed, she mentioned that we were doing it in the bookshelf. I should have said "books and fucking, my two favorite things." But I missed the breath, and forgot to mention that it wasn't just fucking that I meant, it was fucking her. 

I blogged this on a log while I was far away from both books and a good fuck. 

shit

She watched him shit on her porch; her hands were trembling like a waterfall, with the wind blowing harder than it should have been as she crossed the rope bridge. Half-hoping it would break, a quarter hoping that she would smash, and an eighth desiring nothing more than the salvation she knew she would never find, she couldn't do the math to make everything add up to one. Calcified and hardened until she was a statuesque version of what she could have breathed a few minutes ago, she chose only to smoke like a model and live up the fantasies that had plagued her nightmares for so long. She would've gotten tattooed a lot earlier, but she had promised her demi-god that her body was their temple. It should've been her own; she forgot how to worship herself, though. Her schedule was always full when she wanted the most to slide into her pillowcase and disappear from the ramifications of the optionality of existence. It was a lot for her to take on Sunday afternoons, when the churchgoers took off their nice shoes and her pause button had broken. She sat on her porch and watched the moonshine eventually fill up her bathtub and the sky, in that order. She enjoyed the act of watching, even when she knew she couldn't stop all the train wrecks that were heading for a straight, explosive collision. But the beauty of her yellowing skin and her yellowing eyes and her yellowing teeth remained most firmly planted in the fact that nobody really noticed when she was there, but everybody noticed when she was gone. That was how she saw him shit on her porch.
She lit it on fire and then watched the whole house burn.

break

hearing the way your heartbeat broke
all the way
breaking me down
[slightly]
{coordinating}
wondering why you
held me without
wanting me to
feel.

you you you you you
(that's my pulse)
me me me me me
(that's my voice)
hushing me without your fingers left to quiet
my hiccups
and break ups
i can't feel

except that i can

i wonder if you're reading
too far away
reading way too far in
just to see if my mind
is already crying
for your
young tongue
back.
Mine is turning black
but
i still can't.

i wish i could say yes

e q u a l i t y

I'd break into Mona Lisa's tomb
         to see
    if her eyes

                   really follow you all the way down

come on
down
and further
     because I'm

                        screaming
                        but
                        you're
                        too
                        far
                        away

neither of us blink anymore.
Or maybe we're blinking at the same time.

crossing my I's

dotting my T's

and the boulder of the last chapel

in the United 

Arab

States

in all freedom

and 

e      q     a    l      i    t     y

melting down to become only left-over

ashes in my left over fire,

like a savior who missed the date of his own resurrection    

returning his gifts 

boiling down until he becomes nothing at all.

I would've loved to see her GHOST

align with JUPITER

UNDERNEATH THE TIMID MOONSHINE

that wanted so badly to be sunlight. 

Yeah, maybe the moon has a few poems, but nobody's turning away from the sun. 

twat

it's hitting itself over and over

when

it 

broke unto the

dawning

oblivion

you

could have held

it all much tighter

and man

hue man

hugh mahn

humanity

would never need another 

perfect-haired

perfect-lipped

perfect-lifed

hero

to

remind me

and her

and her

and it

of

b a t t e r i e s

that we 

threw away so long ago

nothing was rechargeable back then

negative space

Hanging

to just lick the wetness off of your fingers while you

watch me watch the way your pulse needs your body

only half as badly as I do.

                                                It’s all so tight

                telling you to take

                                                whatever

                                                                you

                                                                                like.

Cause

because

on account of my heavy

                     breathing.

                                                               You’re so

far

                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                          away

 I want you now

Temperment

They should teach

the youth

to capture their innocence

and trap it

in a bottle with a cork

and send it

out to sea

where the oceans will

rock lovingly

upon its delicate

temperament

until it lands upon a shore

and is found

when it has grown

into itself.

It’ll be hope then,

without notions

of inadequacy

or

irrelevancy.

They’ll teach the youth someday. 

It'll happen 

when the treetops have become

finally

acquainted with 

the bottom of the clouds

and 

the air 

no longer

quarrels

with the lungs. 

The youth will learn;

and the water

will

be named

a sea

of tactile fancies,

a pool

of the whispered youth,

an ocean

of innocence.

Hemispheres

Ruin-ed

I'm pushing buttons

and

squeezing on the airplanes 

trying to 

see or maybe

just know.

no. 

trying to see

if 

I can, 

ya know,

trust you again. 

I'm pushing your buttons to see if you push back. 

I would've said yes if you'd bothered to ask. 

But I'm not saying anything

now. 

Now you'll never know. 

I won't tell you why either.