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love is lak de sea. it's uh movin' thing.

Tree tops are the friendliest part of nature. They greet you good morning and shade you from the violent rays of summer zeal. They wish you goodnight by tapping at your window, whispering with the wind that they do hope your next day is even better than this. They're a jungle-gym when needed and never too self-absorbed to relinquish the fruits of their labor for the benefit of another. They're the home to creatures no one else appreciates and the canvas for young lovers who will never pass by again.

pretty as a picture, says the blind man

"i gave away my baby, gave away my clothes, gave away my vices, and lost sight of all my friends" says the shadow in the furthest booth, like they've won some sort of contest for the heavy-hearted. we say cheers to their misfortune, dancing internally that we're so much better off. it's all a game and competition is weak at best.

what are you, new?

parts of me i'm not quite proud of

Love me sweetly, with softness when you can.

Love me wildly, with sternness when it's best.

Love me mildly, with distance when it's hard.

Love me thoroughly, with adoration when it's right.

Love me roughly, with passion when it's time.

Love me in blue and love me in gray, love me while the sunsets and wake with even a great appreciation for what we've shared. Love me from a window-sill, while I am left wanting more. Love me from the door step, when I am too difficult to touch. Love me in anger and in envy and in desperation, love me in happiness and joy. Share with me, your prides and your accomplishments. Allow me in when it's most frightening, allow me to stay in the shadow of the things you're least proud of. Love me through wires and across the sea and from a rooftop when I'm too sleepy to hear the things you're whispering, and love me around the dance floor with lights meant to entice a romance we've surpassed. Love me because you choose to love me. Bask in sunlight with me just because, and run through the rain for a midnight showing neither of us have caught the previews about. Love me through your tears and love me greatest in your laughter. Choose your own way, live your own life, but love my small and seemingly insignificant piece the greatest when you're really asked to be introspective. Love me in an afterthought, in a parenthetical statement meant to rely purely on unconscious thoughts or desires when you've supposedly shared the "meat" of your query. Love me when you're lost, and love the sight of home when you've found your way.

the last song that i write while still in love with you

Wishes down a wishing well, I've got questions and you're stingy with the answers. A tisket a tasket, don't count your eggs before they're really in your basket - why'd you have to go and get so brave, who asked you to face this big world on your own? And where do you get off being so free, don't you know those chains were meant to keep? They rusted and were torn, but we trusted you to know your limits, to know you had no other options. We're all trusting trusting trusting that no one's ever gonna leave and we forget to maybe give them a reason to stay - stay with me, wish with me, answer all the things I'm dying to know and pretend even when you can't. Let me be free, let me be free, these chains are meant to keep. I'm rusted, you're torn, you trusted me but limits aren't my color. You threw your wishes down a wishing well but I stopped believing in all those games so long ago, my money's burning a hole in my pocket where your picture should be. Here's your heart, here's your shirt, here's all the things we whispered, I'll take my chances where I'm free from expecting things out of you.

you told us to write about waking up breathless in a room that wasn't our own but the crowded lunchroom was overwhelming i apologize please forgive me

It would take a year to count the dots on a classroom ceiling. Blink blink blink cheap florescent lighting flicks away so dimly that you aren't entirely convinced it's not a trick of the eyes. There's no doubt that the stale scent of cigarettes and various cultural body odor makes the halls uncomfortable, but you're stuck here with the oddest arrangement of people you'd rather never see again. Funny story. A boy accused of rape last year was reading the paper in my favorite coffee shop with a brunette who had evidently bought both his lines and their drinks. You wonder who you're really sitting next to, glance over your shoulder before yet another joke pops in to your head. Did a math project with a chubby sophomore who had a child, she called her most recent lover by another guy's name. You wonder who you're really sitting next to. Everyone has a funny sort of story that would sound more plausible in day-time soap operas, and everyone else is interested in each unsavory detail and giving their misguided opinions on such. You wonder what they know of you, you wonder what they think.

The ceiling block closest to your door has 385 dots.

Humanity i love you because when you're hard up you pawn your intelligence to buy a drink and when you're flush pride keeps you from the pawn shops

Here is where we give our toast, our glasses clink and we laugh through our teeth. Here is the dawn of our obligations, aren't you so delighted? Winters are warm, summers are sweet, we are happy little people in a big world.

Everything's gotta euphemism, so why's it still taste so bad on our tongues?

telescopes

I drink coffee like it's water and run like I'm invincible. I forget to eat, I get angry when things don't go according to plan. I am impatient, I am loud, I have thoughts that run through my mind so continuously that I want to scream sometimes. I feel colors and I taste the weather, I am not proud of my compulsions and unwilling to follow doctor's orders. I hate the height that others envy, I drive too fast only when the road is bad. I am not a daredevil and I will swear up and down that I am happy. I like the cold, I miss being warm. I make my bed daily even though it's never really messy. My hair isn't always in place and I do not wear make up, I still want my mom when I'm feeling under the weather. Kisses aren't contracts but I feel like I give a small part of me away anytime I share them with someone undeserving, and my favorite sort of bath is unclothed and beneath the sun. I love the beach, I want a house in the mountains, I'm going to build a boat one day just to say that I did. I could live in a room made only of maps.

Enjoy your fish bowl, this soul is far from lost.

You drew your sword, I drew upward on your puppet strings. Rosy with embarrassment, you hang your head as you realize you've never known what it was like to have the upper hand. You are so pretty, your story shall be told in the most vibrant of ways, but you have never quite been more than the ring you leave on the coffee table once you are gone.

mango trees and papaya dreams.

i'd dance along your jawline, you'd swim through my hair. i drew all the prettiest pictures down your hipbone whilst you uttered the sweetest melodies in to my ear. we built a fort of tangled sheets, night fell upon the adjacent wall in the form of our shadow as my back reflexively arched. you were sticky and tasted sweet, the room was a lively cream, your body felt the liveliest of pinks and reds. you were soft and rough, you were kind and coarse. you were tangible, you were mine. you existed in your most beautiful form, beneath me and the stars. it was raining, it was dark, my memories are so painfully bright.

hopenhagen.

Hello Tweed Jacket, I am supposed to know you as I shake your hand and smile solemnly over our mutual loss. Hello Cheap Lipstick, I am supposed to love you as I hug you halfheartedly and glance awkwardly at my feet when you mention our mutual loss. Hello Fake Teeth, I am supposed to miss you as you pat my shoulder and we share a funny story of our mutual loss.

We acknowledge blood as warmth and affection, pretend to feel nostalgic for the days captured in wrinkled photographs, and smile fondly to strangers who are supposed to mean a great deal to us because they are blood.

keep your last name

and your coat on.

we're better together when an ocean's between us.

dispassionate

My head is a windmill, though the nearby stream feels disappointingly empty. There's little inspiration to be found in the margins of textbooks, there's no quality time for counting stars or cozying up to our own eye lids these days. Autumn come with sympathy, come with grace. Autumn come with peace of mind.

It's time to go.

these walls are paper thin and every one hears every little sound

Jude Law and Novocaine, he likes cigarettes and she likes her lovers rail thin. There's a subway passing by tonight and they will hitch a ride for reasons we are not privy to. Some people live for simple pleasures, like the outline of their ribcage when they're fresh from the shower. Their most interesting function is that of allotting punishment, even if they're the ones deserving.









I bet the sky is lonely. It's the soundboard for everything wrong in the world, from wilted flowers to dead grandparents. Reaching out via see-through wisps to grab on to the tips of birds that are heading towards sweeter scenery, it can never really join the party and wouldn't be invited anyway. It rains when we're ready to celebrate and is joyous on our saddest days. I bet the sky is so terribly lonely.

"They pull a knife, you pull a gun. They send one of yours to the hospital, you send one of theirs to the morgue. That's the Chicago way."

Dripping wet from a shower that could've lasted the entire day had you any say in the matter, cold toes meet colder tile and your skin is graced and covered snugly by a burnt orange towel. Scented pine cones allow you the pleasure of fantasy; lost in memories of a mountain you haven't seen in years, and the regressing detail of a face that has since shared breath with so many more suitable partners.

Paper cuts and fire trucks, lincoln logs come tumbling down and and the sky is lit up with the flames of celebratory bon fires. Every thing's coming together, everyone's growing apart. Give in, let go, we all want out; what I'd give to get back in. Flip the pages, set the score, all things come with a count down and pass with over exaggeration - there's not a single holiday that won't come around again.

spy work in the graveyard

rum and coke

and dizzy declarations

of fleeting feelings and

frivolous desires

while dancing with

your shadow.

mirrored silhouette

tempting my finger

tips and taunting

their journey

down your spine.

oh, what an

expedition.

sporadic thoughts for worn and weary

sharp tongue
wobbly legs
split ends
callused hands
nervous kisses

counter top ring from coffee mugs left sitting too long. cold and stale, these tales have been shared throughout the ages and evolve only in face and name. it always ends the same, crawling to bed and a mental portrait of better days ahead. those coins you tossed will never meet the fountain. always dreamed in color but forgot to stop and smell the dew.

now to make up for lost time.

golden locks of flirt and fury.

the season's style is simple and stale; torn comic books cover a carpet that wouldn't catch your eye anyway. you breathe softly, you ask me questions of where i'm from and how i feel and i wonder why you speak in tongue. you're the shakespeare of these barren tree trunks, and i am passerby who could count all the other places i'd rather be headed.

hot like wasabe when i bust rhymes.

cinematic film lines these thoughts, daring to push further and enticing the dramatics. everyone's a poet, everyone's a critic. is everyone dancing on these egg shells, too?

skin like that is just begging to be touched.

we'll share an adventure and pretend it was all for the sake of art.

thrill me.

In wake of my death there will be no statue, no book to recall the life I lead or collection of sonnets to share my beliefs. There will be no crowds of candles or expensive bouquets in effort to weakly demonstrate affection for me or the radiance of my presence. Days will pass, close relatives and friends will move on. No one will sit idly by in green fields of sunflowers and think of my brown hair in the wind, nor my tongue upon the tip of my own nose in an effort to catch a snow flake. Life will continue with no more than the faintest of ripples for a minimal crowd, and I will face my fate and deeds with a full heart and the simplest of legacies.

But I know there's a boy who's in love with a sand box that has my name carved in to the side. I know that when he sits upon his swing set and stares at his mother watering daisies, the only time he can get her outside, he thinks of me and his yellow room and being an air plane for the first and likely only time ever. He will remember learning to use a paint brush, and having kisses to his cheek when his knee was skinned. He will remember someone who reminded him to wash his hands before eating and was so excited to see him that she twirled him in the air. He will know, for once in his life, that he was the most exciting thing about someone else's whole summer - that he is an important memory to a girl who will forever feel blessed to have met him despite his bitter shyness. He'll grow up, and either become or reject the life he was brought in to. He will leave his own, likely minuscule, legacy to leave behind one day - more than a decade after myself. I hope he knows how it feels to change someone's summer, to let someone be an air plane. I hope he knows we talk of him often. When we visit this summer to check up on him, he won't remember us exactly. He won't run to us, hugging us and screaming for joy the way we know he will secretly want to. He will smile shyly, wave politely, and go to his sand box. He will remember when the sand was fresh and we took our shoes off despite hating how it felt between our toes just so his sand could stay clean, and he will remember the wind upon his face the only time he could fly. That's enough. The day that I die, that will still be enough.