word spooge

a veil before your eyes

drown in heavy cream

drink in honey

toss the container in the street.

lift luggage

lift lids

lift a finger

break down.

affects

like the rough renders i scrawl

with ball pen

at two am,

my love for you is incomplete.

finding.

wish we had a past,

instead of this irresolute present.

wishes,

like water,

ever precious.

for (granted)

for (ever)

let me dream of raw wood

with strong grains

that challenge the tyranny of straight lines

and straight lives

with dogs on rugs in front of fires holding back the draft from the door that leads to rolling hills

or lakes

or all the forests of the world

wrap me in that throw we knitted from the unraveling of our minds

and fall asleep with me on the floor

precision

like a needle shot bullseye from a hundred feet away

a diamond saw crafting impossible beauty from a dusty rock

like how i know the exact way you like your coffee

how you get out of bed

exactly where to kiss your neck

simply downtrodden

simply uplifted

i remember walking down the gravel path at your aunt's acreage.

the entrance is informal, merely a break in the bright red fence circumferencing her yard.

the paper birch trees hang limply over the walkway. their listlessness inspires a certain relaxation in us as we forget the world of parents, curfews.

the impending doom of september and the prison of ancient desks, smelly erasers and lined paper is forgotten. we disappear into the embrace of mother nature, playing at being our ancestors.

we are less then a stone's throw from the highway. it doesn't matter. we are simply lost in the forest, as far as we are concerned.

Back From the Dead?

This is a Tragic Ending.
I see her standing there,
ice from her eyes
breaking on the sidewalk

Warm,
and forgotten,
you feel no pain.

I hold her and melt her tears with
my breath, full of assurances that
it's not okay
but it will be okay

after the last page is turned
and after the book is placed down
and after she walks away.

if this is you

if this is you i’d rather be dead.
burnt at the stake and served as toast in a greasy diner full of hangovers.
i’d rather be crisp, fried, served with eggs. fuck the jam, just butter please. jam reminds me of your sister and she was always kind of a bitch.
the one time you took me anywhere was to that diner. there was brie in my omelet, but they forgot to give me a fork and i forgot to bring the part of me that knows how and when and why to say no.
no, if this is you i’d rather be crying.
screaming while my flesh peels away, revealing lungs asphyxiating on smoke from fat logs like fat lies.
i would inhale your fat lies without a filter, desperate for the caustic nicotine of your attention. they haven’t developed a patch or a gum for attention addiction yet, so i had to kick you cold turkey.
somedays i still want to take long drag of lies just to feel the heat in my chest, but then i remember how you made my fingers smell and i choose to light myself instead.