INK. and a happier tomorrow

There's a bruise on my bottom lip
and I'm standing in the kitchen
wondering if I would make you coffee

but I'm barefoot.

Touching all the glass window panes,
I make believe
that you would stay with me

but it's Sunday morning.

The sky is crying over your smile and my smile
and your eyes
and my hands

but it's forecasted sunshine.

I've carved a hole in the Berlin Wall
that marks off the edge of the Earth.

You go first.

Bruise

Devoid of parameter

                                   I'm crossing my i's and dotting my t's 

                                   when and how I please.

Thoroughly indicative of another day time terror

I watch her like she's                   fragile                      and

losing hope in my half-way house dream.

I'll never be quite right. 

She breathes in another language

and my heartbeat can't keep up.

Lightning is striking

                                        the sand                                   in my hand                                 and

its burning like someone forgot me. 

She turns the oceans into possibility, wrapped up in the snow. 

She knows where to go.

I'm trying to keep up, but I'll run out of gasoline on the highway when she kisses like a beauty queen and laughs like the  fourth of December. 

Feather dusters keep the pace and scar her face

                                       she's found disgrace

 in me.

In leaning over wrecking balls, and manipulating the moonshine glow, she's made her mark out of the dark.

I'll never know beauty in Arabia

but tomorrow, we'll run away. 

upside down calendars

Like a dance along a fantasy island, your little tongued discrepancy is a beautiful shame.
You are so much better than I could have dreamt when I counted your breaths all those mornings, before we were woken by the laughter of the oceanic views.
Too phenomenal to compare, all the boisterous similarities you find with the whole human race make your visions of grandeur and your cinematic taste seem rather obvious.
You are everything everyone expected you to surprise us with.
Even the way you lie is breathtaking.

She had EXIT ONLY tattooed on the back of her neck so that when she left, everyone suddenly understood what they had been dealing with all along. There wasn't anything closer than infinity to her outer edges, which she had learned to fray a thousand leagues under the sea during the Summer of her infancy. Then, like a childhood year-long tragedy, she was forgotten.
It hit the rest of them like a black hole in the middle of the day; the sun was absolved of its sins until the moon outgrew the millions of millenniums that had passed.
Little talks and garbage trucks had the same volume and the text of the bible began to burn. It was coming to an end and she hadn't loved hard enough to know what she missed out on that coming of the dawn. Luke warm, boiling, and icy cold, all at once, they were sitting in the bed, closing tight their eyes against the rays of Armageddon.
It's the reality of fantasies that historical and social cognitions always ruin the dream. Youth is fading just as quickly as adulthood is devouring the color in your cheeks.
You smile like there's something you haven't said.

Serendipity

She could've been a cupcake in another life; her candy coated lips made the words she didn't speak taste like little apple wood fireplaces to warm the snow that fell onto the black slate roof. They were collecting sun for the night, they were collecting moon for her dreams, and they almost stopped washing the tiles in order to hold on to the sonatas that they wrote in the dust during summer. But internationalities wept for the lost regard of the immediate future and blood colored fingernails made for a fantasy ride. True, the left-overs still smell sweet, but she wanted to bake something every day to show that the essence of their sin would always carry with them the warmth of another time. Moving along horizon lines and dancing on longitude, she would have morphed her physicality and made her name something more Abrahamic and less pop-music. In her philosophy class, though, she meandered without hope, remaining flawless in her recognition of the possibilities that were mounting themselves to the staccato wall without bereft regard. Coolant and radiation aside, there were many more moments left before she could give up on never giving up. Until the ocean hit the mountains, however, she would wait. Eternity was whimsical when one lived a lifetime of serendipity.

Esoteric

You're painting with watercolors in the sky every time you blink through this rainstorm that the gods have created to make everything more difficult to see.
Driving alone, listening to the music of the street lights bounce back at you from the dashboard, there are empty boats filled with empty bottles that have emptied people because nobody really appreciates the sensation of being alive. It's hard to breathe, yes, but you're breathing.
I'm at the junction that will take me to the place that people told me that I need to be. But, I'm merging through traffic and it seems like maybe there's another choice.
I'd like to learn to speak silently so that standing next to you, I can still hear your voice in libraries and cemeteries and museums.
It's getting greener. There's something about the way the rain clears the vision so that suddenly everything that is beautiful can be seen by everyone.
Someone once said that seeing is believing, but frankly I've got a much more esoteric view on things.
I'm the stranger. You're the sun. You're driving me mad, but I feel everything. I appreciate being alive.

It hurts to breathe, but I'm too busy breathing in you to notice. 

Red Wine

It tasted like red wine and a superfluous mixture of extraordinary love and indescribable sorrow inside of her mouth the night before she forgot how to spell her own name. There's a cocoon wrapped up inside of wrought iron cages to keep all the sensations inside her bed. They are just a centimeter too far apart for their cells to begin to replicating into one another, but their breathing makes it seem like a mile stands between their comfort and the rest of the world.
They make much more sense together than they ever did before. They walk while trading hands and minds and secrets made up of chai tea and reminiscence. Beautifying the ramifications of a lifetime of inadequate nightmares, they both have suddenly located the X on the treasure map.
They stand back to back, hiding the way that they hold hands in the shadows. They are living a hundred years in the past and seven months in the future, wishing in a different language and reading about the way that other people have loved before. It's nothing that can quite compare.