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.