and i can't slow the pace of this insomnia. I'm still thinking about things. The stretch of time covered in the shapes and shades of mangoes and skating and Boston & NY in the summer time. Friday getaways. Sunrise love. The ecstasy and decay. Pink cowboy boots. Love fermenting and bubbling, being purified and spoiled all over with a foreign process. The waiting, the total abandon, the rush of senses. We start to become less familiar. Your scent is different, particularly more human, and less of that of a statue; a granite man, a sculpture born from the blind recklessness of love, mortal hands built you up so that you were beyond blame, beyond the air, beyond a human existence. O mortal coil, the mortal shell I lavish with kisses. And with that same mouth calling for redemption, getting cold damned answers, half closed eyes, full of unchanging hate. And the vast contrast between our beings only stunned me from a distance. Us. So full of forgiveness and breezes, so mad and passionate in a desert of grudges. Us. Since when did we become like this? Was it hidden deep in our personalities, the inner workings, the gears of fate that would lead us to coincide with heartache? I have a feeling, I have a feeling... a feel a feel...I feel I feel...sick.

balled up and crumpled
all the things i want to say
seem to dry up with noon sun
and the terrible dusks when all the memories
creep into empty spaces

fill my thoughts with hollow spiders
and kill me with moon rise glare
only to be reborn to suffer the same fate
when I wake
because there just isn't a way to break this cycle
to break this teetering heart that
dives off cliffs for you
just to show you love; its merit
constrained in the ether because I can't find the words
and you don't know the phrases

we misplaced the days
in the sugar start of romance
innocent enough to fool
easy enough to give into

where do i turn?
where the road splits or
where my stomach churns,
and leaves the faint trace of bile in the planted kiss

that makes up for the way we talk like nothing happened
the big grey elephant in the room
consuming all the air we use to avoid each others pitfalls

and yet despite the caves of indifference carved up inside us
there are crystals that glow with a certain miasma,
made thus through dangerous acts of love

Thin Skin

this new supposed flesh
ill tailored to my bones
shakes and shivers
with the distant flutter of wings

it is thin and barren
you can tell
for when you hold me
the skin feels like fine mist

it's so flimsy it can't hold what's inside
so when we dance,
the ground inherits a marked choreography of parts;
my entrails, my lungs, my heart

in the blood pattern of our movement
strange and grotesque;
the maiden who couldn't stop falling apart
and the prince who couldn't keep her together