obsessions: maroon, writing, poetry, letters, bruises, ice that lasts till the end of your drink, black straws, guitar, coffeecoffeecoffee, fox, singing, dreams, nightmares, good veiws, large windows, eyedoctors, new toothbrushes, socks that dont match, scarves, 5 dollar sun glasses, katchup in glass bottles, mechanical pencils, wine, skin.
Hates: weedwackers, being indecisive, automatic toilet flushers, capital letters, chipped nail polish, the word hamper, bandaids, feeling empty.
“Starved for affection, terrified of abandonment, I began to wonder if sex was really just an excuse to look deeply into another human being’s eyes.”
— Douglas Coupland, Generation X
I will never be strong enough to hold onto the rain. The shutters knock gently against The world blinks once, and I wonder how many people and if it’s the same number
my windowpanes and outside,
the neighbors’ lamplights look like
spit out teeth.
then twice,
out of the seven billion on this earth
are in love,
as the stones that the women are holding pressed
in their pockets
as they sleep quiet
at the bottom of a pool.
My ghosts sit in empty chairs They drink glasses of mulled fog that one day I’ll have to clear the table
around the dining room table.
and watch me with patient eyes, knowing
that one day I’ll have to look them in the eye
and ask that they leave,
and make room for the ones that I love too much
to lose.
You do not always know what I am feeling. and isn’t it odd? for in rooms full of different today?
Last night in the warm spring air while I was
blazing my tirade against someone who doesn’t interest
me, it was love for you that set me
afire,
strangers my most tender feelings
writhe and
bear the fruit of screaming. Put out your hand,
isn’t there
an ashtray, suddenly, there? beside
the bed? And someone you love enters the room
and says wouldn’t
you like the eggs a little
And when they arrive they are
just plain scrambled eggs and the warm weather
is holding.
the night was warm and sticky as we trapped it in the spaces between ourselves and the taste of your red wine blood stained lips and our mouths that melt together when we kiss I breathed in, collecting your scent in the depths of my lungs tracing my fingertips ever so lightly along the scars that cut canyons across your chest and bound you up in thin red ribbons trying to detect some sense of fear in you of vulnerability, imperfection accidentally and clumsily I uncovered your secrets and forgot them just as easily while in the surfaces of scar tissue, the places devoid of sensations I felt the only part of you that I could never touch although I had tried to breathe the life back into you but did you know that the outer layer of all our skin is dead? have you ever thought that maybe all we’re doing is somehow trying to touch dead things?
