Start by saying "please..."
bite your bottom lip , pout, and flutter those lashes;
sucker punch the part of me the would say "no."
NOV PAD 2010 - Day 21
NOV PAD 2010 - Day 20
There are two lips, or four if we're technical,
they are pressed together
they are hoping for a spark, a hint, a clue; they are unlucky dreamers,
their hopes are dying in their throats.
NOV PAD 2010 - Day 19
There is an emptiness you can't fulfill,
the minus you that fills the air completely.
NOV PAD 2010 - Day 18
I lost you somewhere, I think; or you found me
written on the inside of your wrist, tangled
with your flawed veins
I was just damaged enough to be completely perfect.
NOV PAD 2010 - day 17
Tell Me Why the Toilet Tissue is Locked in the Trunk of My Car
And I'm sitting upstairs in the middle of this red brick building
behind the locked door of my loft
behind the open door of the bathroom
(because the space is nothing but air and me). I'm wearing a grimace
a palm thrown dramatically to slap my forehead. This is stupid,
and sitting here wondering isn't helping the tissue get here
not quicker, not sooner, not at all.
NOV PAD 2010 - Day 16
Why Card House Always Topple...
Because it is midway through the 11th month and half the day is already over. Because the fall is not the season of love. Because everything around us is dying...including us. Because I have walls, but no windows or doors. Because you can't be someone's shadow without sunshine and it's been raining nonstop for weeks. Because your best friend hats me and frankly I'm not too fond of her either. Because I'm socially awkward and I haven't learned how to hide it. Because I can't trust in something I'm not sure exists and although you are the most tangible thing in my reality I can't allow myself to submerge in you.
NOV PAD 2010 - Day 15
Peeking out the door
my breath comes in steady bursts. The quiet stretches
its legs and eases into warm comfort.
NOV PAD 2010 - day 14
I saw the bricks falling ahead of me
golden and glinting in the sun. Make me more promises
swear by things we can't keep; turn doughnuts
parking lot dragster, I can keep up. I don't look it,
but I prefer the asphalt
gravel and dirt roads. Simplicity to the complex. Silver
to a Golden road. I don't believe in Oz
or wishes or Ruby slippers. I believe in weed-wackers, machetes
and finger nails caked in dirt.
NOV PAD 2010 - day 13
Why so serious?
Tell me if it's so crazy to smile?
Hysterical, the irony of laughter. Chuckle
now. Cry only when it's appropriate. Come costumed, a clown
juggling the masks you have to wear to survive.
NOV PAD 2010 - Day 12
The weakest point in the chain is where the kink is;
the part that keeps knotting in on itself. The ends are moving
away from the center towards infinity
and that kink just tightens, pressured
until it breaks. You couldn't care if it breaks. It's not you.
Not you breaking into pieces. You had the common sense to be steel,
and steel can't bend backwards to fortify nickel.
NOV PAD 2010 - day 11
No One Wants You...
I'm known to be mean, but not cruel;
not an ugliness that likes to tear things apart. And I could shred you,
toss you like confetti; but I don't
thought about it , but didn't. I can't find my pleasure
in your pain; the sight of you cracked and holding pieces of yourself in.
I am no longer a hero, but I won't be your villain either.
NOV PAD 2010 - day 10
To say my heartbeats is redundant;
of course it beats, hard, in my chest
but it's just because I'm alive
or it's Thursday
not because of your presence
it's never been you.
NOV PAD 2010 - day 9 (two for tuesday)
Not until death. Run as if life is something escapable.
No one gets out alive. Be a torch, burning. Be
the ashes, not the darkness. Be the light...
Be the only thing that shimmers
like a river bed full of washed over rocks. Don't stop.
Not until death.
Breathe. While the lights streak pass
like a carousel ride, a carnival of neon. There won't always be more time.
There will always be days you're burning at both ends. Days you are the wax
not the wick. Deeply, breathe
and step lightly, the stones are loose here.
NOV PAD 2010 - Day 8
Can we agree you're a bitch? I'm willing to concede
I'm an asshole. We can agree that we're both bottled up issues.
Though you can't believe you're less than perfect,
and I'm pretty sure my mother still thinks I'm great. You disagree.
Which is fine, great, fan-fucking-tastic; let's just agree to disagree.
NOV PAD 2010 - Day 7
Pro-bed
There is an empty bed
or not so empty their are clean clothes curled like a sleeping body
on the left side. Pillows tumble on top of each other, an unkempt mountain.
I shape myself, spooning the clothing. It's cold
and blankets call my name. I answer, a whisper with closed eyes.
NOV PAD 2010 - Day 6
Looking for the Man...
Peering at me over her glasses she sighs--disappointment;
I am not the woman she planned on me being. Not the vision
of ladylike endeavors. She knows somewhere there's a "he" to make me more
"she"
less it. At least that's how she's always seen it. How she's trying
to teach me to see it; but I'm too old for secondary education. To set
in the comfort of my mold. Or maybe neither of us have walked
each other footsteps and maybe neither of us is ever going to...
NOV PAD 2010 - Day 5
I was born bare-boned, a skeleton. Threw on a bodysuit
of muscles, a coat of skin. I have been becoming,
not yet settled on been; growing into being.
I have swallowed a muscle built like concrete
and let it sink, weighing me as less than worthy.
NOV PAD 2010 - Day 4
Because veins are not highways
I cannot travel the tips of your outstretched fingers
the inside curve of your elbow
sloping under your breasts to your heart.
NOV PAD 2010 - day 3
It's easier to get warmer than cooler
add another blanket
or two. Cuddle with a pillow
or five and burrow into the mattress. Hibernate.
When you awake the sun will be half passed midday
the season will be in full swing.
NOV PAD 2010 - day 2
I can tell you about concrete. Tell you
about barb wire, about burnt bridges and bruised bones.
Love, is not something that can be deciphered
or explained; it has a language
my heart is just now learning...at least it thinks.
I can tell you about murmurs. Tell you
about holes, monitors and clogged arteries.
I can illuminate the tangible, the constant. I cannot tear
these foundations asunder and rebuild.
NovPAD 2010- Day 1
Taking cues from the Poetic Asides Blog I'm going to try to post a poem a day for the entire month of November...it may get a bit dicey at the end though because I'm moving the week after Thanksgiving. Anyways, here we go:
Stand still, stand perfectly still. When you look back there will be no footprints--
the trail you blazed will have been swept away.
Toss away your book of matches and curl into yourself.
She was always miles ahead of you, I was ever the omnipotent narrator.
I'm unable to write happy endings, so you can just stand still,
stand perfectly still
wait for her to run back while you watch her run away.
Red Bull
I crave wings
call me Daedalus, Icarus
Earthbound Seraphim. I will flex my naked shoulders, subconsciously
and dive for the sun.
*this came about from being very very very tired one day and being stuck alone to fight sleepiness alone...*
How to Be a Vampire....
(This poem is really one of my favs right now...cuz of the snark and fun of it...)
No matter what be brooding
even if you’re usually carefree and spry;
be brooding. Be dark, mysterious, and cryptic.
Speak needlessly in painstaking riddles,
don’t speak at all. Avoid humans.
Live among them, but separate; blend
into them seamlessly
a cousin, an uncle,
a long dead mother. Expose your bloodlust.
Sue Whedon for defamation of character.
Start an evolutionary phase of mankind: Vote ‘Yes’ on Vampire Proposition 9.
Stay hidden. Scoff at the caricatures of yourself and other monsters.
Believe you are demons
believe you are cursed
or normal
or Gods.
At all costs avoid the sun! You will crisp
like a Peking duck
or instantaneously cremate
or implode
or explode
or at high moon you’ll weaken like a coward avoiding a gunfight
or it will have no effect on you at all,
and you’ll wonder how Hollywood comes up with these things
or you’ll do something ridiculous like sparkle.
Please whatever you do don’t fucking sparkle.
And drink blood
while you’re searching centuries for your mate
or before you escape the sunlight in your coffin;
while you fight hunters or slayers of werewolves
or each other. Anita Blake
or Blade of the Vampaneze.
Drink blood.
Take lives of take only what you need.
Take animals or humans, but take.
And when you’re done taking remember to brood.
Submerged
The decisiveness I lack I make up in dreaming
the ability of my off-sync heart to unscrew your hinges.
I see you better than you see yourself
and I always see me the same: a little abstract
like a pointillist painting from a distance;
the colors are all bleeding together,
into something that could be beautiful if it tried.
I’ve never been known to try
too hard.
I can’t tell you where I’ll be in five years
or five months or five minutes, but I know my heart is nothing
if not potential
like I am waiting to be sprung kinetic
like I am waiting for you to realize I am 75% water; you can drown in me.
Blitz Poem
Got this Idea from Robert Brewer's Poetry Asides and tweaked it a bit to work for me...
It's sketchy at best...I mean I finished it earlier today on my last break...so, let me know:
It Opposite Death
For the ladies,
for the hell of it!
“It just happens sometimes…”
“It just went that way…”
Way we might have gone;
way of our fists.
Fisting my way through life,
fists clenched.
Clenching muscles, cramped.
Clenching, grinding teeth.
Teeth, forced smile.
Teeth chemically altered white.
White masked malignant,
white walls.
Walls, in an ever shrinking box;
walls padded and restraining.
Restraining order;
restraining our hands.
Hands: scarred and peeling.
Hands: out, open, upturned…
Upturned life,
upturned and carefully chaotic.
Chaos in the middle of order.
Chaotic designed survival.
Outsurviving the fittest,
Survival against the odds.
Odd, that we have turned to this…
Odd, that I am me not we…
We are, that, which we are not…
We diverge on forked paths;
paths cemented in bones,
paths of which only our strides are aware;
aware that we are moving,
aware that any moment we could stop:
Stop pretending.
Stop breathing.
Breathing in slow and deliberate.
Breathing out shaky and shallow.
Shallow thoughts lead to empty plans.
Shallow dreams lead to empty hearts.
Heart un-begrudging its beating.
Heart fortified for fighting.
Fighting: because we were born brandishing tiny fists.
Fighting: because we don’t know a better way to survive.
Survive another sunset.
Survive because the only other option is death…
Death, because you stood too still;
death because you were too scare to move.
Moving
Still…
Another Wayward Love Letter to Atlanta
I’m still wondering if you can be homeless and homebound at the same time? Concurrently adrift and set to some unknown path. A lighted beacon, a glowing hearth…
I know without realizing I don’t belong or realize without speaking the words.
I know you write love letters to Chicago, Providence, New York; I leave post-its for Atlanta on my fridge. We only speak in snippets; terse conversation of an impeding divorce. She wishes I’d sign the papers already and leave. And I wonder if we were ever in love or in love with the idea of being so.
I wonder if this was a marriage of convenience. She kept me afloat for a while…
And perhaps, I owe her something for this, roses on the eve of tomorrows that might never come. She always tried harder than I to make this work.
I’m still wandering towards something that instinctually feels like home. Both well aware she can’t be it for me, no lighted beacon, no glowing hearth; but she leaves the lamp on in case—still lost—I find myself stumbling back.
Making Arrangements
My left breast vibrates insistently, midday
a Morse code: ._. . ._ _.. . _ _.. …_ _ _ _ .._ … (rendezvous)
there is no silly sentiment in the urgency of your texts
no imagined fantasy of candlelight and rekindled romances.
Whisper her: “I miss you’s…’”
Growl I: “Fuck Me’s…”
Guttural and moaning are the only ways I recognize your voice. Save
the subtlety for her; reserve the hotel room with cash for me.
Have no expectations of coherent conversations
or afterglow spooning; no hopes for exhaling
“I love you’s…”
And I’ll quiet my snickers as you lie her beguiling “sweet dreams”
and scream when you balance me quivering a secret you can’t keep.
Mesopotamia
I have daydreamed of you
my palm cupping the underside of your earth. My hand
impossibly perfected your diameter, molded
to your curving horizon.
Three heartbeats in sync...
I find myself cradling you while you cradle
life; call me Atlas enamored with her weight
call this the new geocentric galaxy and I'll be a faithful satellite;
or keep my arm pretending the Euphrates and Tigris, enveloping your fertile valley.
Pact
-For Gee and Ness, R.I.P. 2/25/2010
WHOOSH WHOOSH WHOOSH WHOOSH! / a train hammered by— / a teenage girl screamed // “This is a deeply fearsome thing / we’re not wired for it; our bodies will recoil…” // nothing romantic about broken spirits and broken / bones. Nothing romantic about thundering trains. Nothing // fixed by balancing on third rails; tangled limbs and steel. Forever / hugs, last instances / as the train barreled it way south.
I read this article: Teen Suicide Pact
and this is what came from that...
National Poetry Month - Day 30
Is there a sort of death in stillness?
In silence? In turning in on yourself
so much so that you are translucent. Poor
translucent stagnation; this thing that won't allow us to step forward,
we can't always be circling the same decisions.
There are no answers lying in the shadows of circumferences.
What we need is what we dream
desires
those things we have forbidden ourselves from...
National Poetry Month - Day 29
Another late one...this is almost over, but until the end of today...I'mma keep on truckin...
I could be the Mad Max of the mornings
unconciously pressing the petal
I jerk forward, feel myself streaking
the pre-dawn feels collapsible around me
I know it's not, that there are things that might be sturdier than myself;
I haven't met them yet, still aware they might exist.
National Poetry Month - Day 28
I can't imagine if your words held any beauty
because your mouth perfected a sneer
a scar across your face. I'd already lived this present
past tense on what I knew you were saying
though you'd somehow gone mute
or I went deaf, suddenly. We'd stopped speaking
the same riddles months ago. Tongue-twisting a lie to fit the scene of the crime.
I would ask for mercy if it were yours to grant.
You play executioner in bedsheets
a cop to my increasingly convincing robber. I think the bad guy wins
today. I think I stole your heart and got away...
National Poetry Month - Day 27
I'll leave the baggage you tried to make me shoulder on your front porch
between the potted begonia and the dying fern
I hope you recognize them;
if you don't they will surely recognize you
and your handwriting scribbled on the tags
and the scent of you or moreso a scene like dying.
National Poetry Month - Day 26
I have been under the weather since yesterday....here's yesterday's poem:
Exhaustion
means I'm pass the point of caring
about the complexity of the webs we weave
or wove in the past with a passion
National Poetry Month - Day 25
Designing my own desires
I give firm voice to exactly what I want. Not questioning,
no wish or hope. These are the things I cannot give up
a dream from which I can't re-awaken.
National Poetry Month - Day 24
The sun is disappearing behind these white plastic blinds
I barely notice the stress my eyes are under
reading by twilight. I strain to maintain this connection
to something else; words bigger than myself. I can't help it:
I built dreams on a story...
National Poetry Month - Day 23
Preface: Today was a really sexually-charged writing day; who knows why...but I was writing and grinning like a fool.
I can hold my hand right here
just here, just so
silently, unless smirks speak
then I'm yelling "victory..."
My other fingers are lost somewhere
wall hair hip, hip hair,
wall breast. They are so inconsistent
unlike the others steady in their determination. I can hold you up
my hand
right here, just here, just so
holding you cupped to catch you should you fall
National Poetry Month - Day 22
Dear You,
awkwardly standing across the room
your heart is a sabbatical shadow blooming
outwards like a mid-spring cherry blossom. I
am a refugee shipwrecked in your peripheral
a wounded satellite barely keeping orbit. I build beds
waiting for the day you might eclipse me
an outer ring of light, a radiance outpouring
in waves; to drown me. 
photo copyright NASA
National Poetry Month - Day 21
Sin never sleeps, so they call me an insomniac
my eyeballs are allergic to the lids, blinking
leaves me tearing; like I believe in emotions.
With anger I'm most intimate, one night stand
where the day never comes.
National Poetry Month - Day 20
Transparency, a ghost of something past
I keep moving too quickly; my present
becomes a future, perhaps not mine: a clicking slideshow.
Slow-motion,
dancing to silent music
this song always plays here
It's our swan song
beautiful in it's one lingering note
we've been stretching it out by half beats
Pausing, until that plucked string finally breaks
National Poetry Month - Day 19
She wants to remind me of some good day
some yesteryear, repeats a mantra of nostalgia.
"We use to think we could be..."
anything
or anyone. We're too old for fables.
Even our dreams don't end in "Happily Ever Afters..."
They've grown up. Laid down plastic swords for real knives
or fists; your bed owns a gun now, your nightmares ride bullets.
National Poetry Month - Day 17
I enter the house of Saturn
running again from the return of the sun
I test her structures, sturdy yet unstable-
this is not a home for permanence
it is a home made of sticks, or straw; waiting
watching big bad wolves huffing and puffing at my heels
you've never been able to blow me away
Saturn writes love letters on wolves' breath
she wants to change my existence,
earthquake the value I've placed on this life
the motivation I've placed on my feet
she thrives on upheaval and her house is already a half-mess
I can't stay here forever...
I'm barely making it through today
limped my way through yesterday
running from the sun who's always three steps ahead of me
into the waiting arms of Saturn, who returned too, a lover...
photo courtesy of NASA
Happy Birthday to Me!
National Poetry Month - Day 17
I enter the house of Saturn
running again from the return of the sun
I test her structures, sturdy yet unstable-
this is not a home for permanence
it is a home made of sticks, or straw; waiting
watching big bad wolves huffing and puffing at my heels
you've never been able to blow me away
Saturn writes love letters on wolves' breath
National Poetry Month - Day 16
"Gotta shine my rusty halo..." -The Script "Rusty Halo"
I wear my halo as a belt buckle
thumb it loosely as I shoulder the wall
watch the people as they part around me
I make choices to not migrate with them
to stick out as something separate from them.
I wear my horns underneath my dreads
tuck them behind my ears
know the evil that I could get into
I make choices that lead me not
unto the path of temptation, the path most traveled.
National Poetry Month - Day 15
I cannot accept this distance
the space that has grown above our knotted selves
National Poetry Month - Day 14
Dear Atlanta,
you are my in-between love
or the love that happened without looking for love
(in all the wrong places)
or a really strong like. You are that kinda-friend
open door and free couch; letting me rest here
without a calendar, without motivation
without pushing me to stay-
or go. And I could love you for that,
but you would be well aware when I kiss you my heart wasn't really in it...
my heart is miles ahead of me.
I can't smile at you with my eyes, and I can't lie:
you've given me more pain than pleasure, left more scars
than your worth; that's why you're an in-between place
and I'm in-between staying and leaving you.
ugh..I hate that ending....jeez...
National Poetry Month - Day 13
I stitched my heart up my sleeve
buttoned the wrists close so it wouldn't slide out on accident.
Thread can break sometimes
unraveling slowly til it pops, I don't know how to reinforce this.
National Poetry Month - Day 12
I wrote this yesterday but didn't get a chance to post it...hoppped up on benadryl...
"In reality there are no black outlines..." -Some art teacher somewhere
We are all shade and shine
a blended grayscale
softly, we yield to the existence of each other
malleable, light bends and breaks around us
or if we prove fragile enough, bends to break us.
National Poetry Month - Day 11
The last time I said "I love you..." I didn't mean it,
there was a pause that stretched across the galaxy
I saw Jupiter in your eyes
cloudy and searching out something more in me
some sign of intelligent life
a heartbeat, a pulse...
the words escaped me in a rush of breath
a hiccup or burp
a complete accident, that I couldn't excuse myself enough for
couldn't take back; because you held it close
something fragile you knew you would lose.
National Poetry Month - Day 10
It's nothing personal,
there's an envy that comes with death
for the living. This is just about survival;
base instincts and simple appetites.
If it wasn't your brain, it'd be someone else;
wrong place
wrong time
wrong side of the apocalypse...
One second to look away
or look off slightly to the left imagining life before
that your neighbor's skin isn't peeling from the bone
that there isn't dried blood smeared across an ex-lover's lips
that your mother's eyes haven't gone blank, flat and lifeless.
When they pull you back
with a strength they never possessed in life
how hard will you struggle? How much will you want to survive?
Question as their mouths descend on your struggling:
Is it better to run forever alone
or dying and walk in hunger together?
National Poetry Month - Day 9
You are: me
driving towards the westward dipping sun,
squinting eyes and burnt retinas; the focus is askew.
I blink back shine-
the punishment for being heliocentric,
following stars; galactic paparazzo.
Blame gravity:
tidal pools and kissing shorelines.
Blame orbits:
invisible lifelines weaving through the constellations.
Circumstantial, evidence isn't science
conjectures are hypotheses without experimentation. Truth is tangible
a theorem tried and tested.
Paradigm Shift: You are blindness...
National Poetry Month - Day 8
Stitching the veins of one hand to the other
I am all tied up, too tangled to tap out-
cat's cradles and stretched rubber bands
I wrote prayers in needlepoint
looping letters to God.
I haven't waited long enough at one address
to receive an answer
past stamped postmarks and pre-paid envelopes
God pays it forward...
Leaving my answers leaning on others' doorframes
perched inside their mailboxes, a bill inked: past due.
National Poetry Month - Day 7
Every brick has a history;
a century of ghosts live inside each column
I have marked the growth of my footprints next to the floor lines
the deep scratches of years before I arrived here. Months before I leave
or stay; growing use to my fingers trailing across these brick walls,
the creak of these floorboards beneath my hesitant footsteps.
I keep moving because moving has kept me alive.
National Poetry Month - Day 6
You are frozen as this photograph of you
an imagination
bend yourself to fit my memory;
your memory is quite different, because you see reality in hindsight:
20/20
a dream that changes each time
what could have been, but actually never was. Unfreeze!
Everyone shuffles, makes poses to exemplify their lives
the pretend-believe of it all.
This is who you thought you were three years ago...
Who you are now fails all expectations. Breaks
all rules.
You always did...you never really could help it.
National Poetry Month - Day 4
And I hope your heart is insured
or stocked up on bandages, because I aim to break it;
hold it while it hopes for me
and I give you less.
Today this isn't working out. I kept thinking about the first line. I'd actually been thinking about it for a week now but couldn't figure how to work with it. I think this is my worse effort thus far, but who knows later it may work into something successful, just not today...
National Poetry Month - Day 3
Walking the valley of metallic trees
iron trunks and copper-coated branches;
the air heavy with electrons, bouncing
the frenzied whirl of loose atoms.
They are quiet in their excursion picking
their way through the thickest part this night
both shoulder backpacks and weeks of burdens
heading without direction towards: escape.
Weaving moonlight in their footsteps,there are no maps in their strides
only purpose and a plan directed towards daybreak.
National Poetry Month - Day 2
Shadows sleep awkwardly across his face
timid of daylight or another day breaking
silently; he shelters himself in polos and chucks
uses his backpack as a shield.
His peers are dragons
and he is no St. George; not fireproof or tested.
His skin is paper and they watch him crumbling
fraying at the edges, transparent in the center.
So I can say that I wrote this because all the headlines right now about bullying...
National Poetry Month - Day 1
papier-mache lion you roar in crumbling notes
un-fearsome
unfathomably you matchstick the roads you've already traveled,
trailblazing. You comet flame
burning an ideal long past it's lifetime. You burn at half-light
I burn on a daily basis, end to end
a furnace brimming with ashes.
Submerged
The decisiveness I lack I make up in dreaming
the ability of my off-sync heart to unscrew your hinges.
I see you better than you see yourself
and I always see me the same: a little abstract
like a pointillist painting from a distance;
the colors are all bleeding together,
into something that could be beautiful if it tried.
I’ve never been known to try
too hard.
I can’t tell you where I’ll be in five years
or five months or five minutes, but I know my heart is nothing
if not potential
like I am waiting to be sprung kinetic
like I am waiting for you to realize I am 75% water; you can drown in me.
Too Soon or Too Late
That night “we” were a nameless entity. Friends? Too simplistic for our complexities. Lovers? The connotation too tangled without tangled sheets. Abbreviated story: I already have a girlfriend; or rather until recently I had one. She is waiting alone in our apartment, for me; mind spinning wildly with imaginary scenarios of what we’re doing. The truth? We are watching TV innocently; she is chewing supermarket sushi, I too nervous to eat, keep thwacking her with her own pillows. I am a five-year-old boy, this is how I say: “I like you” “Do you like me?” “Check yes, please…this story I’m living hurts too much for me to finish it.” Saying, “Maybe you could resuscitate me…”
She turns knowing eyes my way, startling in their ability to pick me apart. “It’s time to go back…” She whispers, we both have finals in the morning; this is a moment of fantasy, it cannot last.
Idling her borrowed Honda outside my lit apartment we are motionless with what could be, but I’m too afraid of what already is to move forward. What is waiting for me behind these red brick walls? What is waiting for me in the weighted silence of this car? A smile that reaches her eyes…A kiss that comes too late? Another fist pressed lovingly against my throat?
Relax?? (Untitled Poem)
"Relax..." She husks lighting soft fingertips down my arm. She uncoils my springloaded fingers, tries to get them to lay flat. Doesn't realize that a fist is natural to me.
As much as I claim non-violence, the preparation for violence
is natural to me.
Fantasy, she is unknown to violence. A variable belonging to closed eyes and kept secrets.
She, inhabitant of a parallel universe is a citizen of my dreams.
I am a citizen of reality.
This means I am a citizen of fists
My hands don't believe in relax.
The Space in Between
This is the space where you breathe, a hitched breath
I should say something prophetic:
I love you? Definitely not.
And my mouth is too tired to begin this lie again,
so we lay here awkwardly, not touching…
after touching so intimately moments ago.
