these comments you make are the veritable
pitfall
of my existence
which lately has been housed solely in my heart
and its beatings.
I know this is what passed
and that there shall be more that will come to pass
but my eyes wish that they were blind,
-no, actually
my soul wishes
my heart lingers
with the hope that it wont beat twice too fast
when I read what you wrote on the eyelids of other girls you kissed
long ago

my unhappiness is sinking me
even though my happiness should readily be the life boat keeping me afloat.

I was witness
to that last real breath you took
to the last time your cheeks had colour in them
I also witnessed
that time you became a statue
in the park of abandoned Soviet Monuments in Budapest
How I loved your immobility
your inability to change
the way your eyes became grey and your cheekbones
always sculpted by the edge of a razor
would never droop
I was witness to the spell a city cast on you.

ecause this inhibition/hesitation starts as something you find cute, charming, whatever

6 months from now it will prohibit your feelings for me from maturing

effectively stopping the progress of our relationship

and thus acting as a catalyst for the doom of "us"

bahahahahahahahahahaha

honey

there is no way Im falling out of love with you

I could write a psychology paper on this

your neurotic behavior?

10:02pm

no!!!

well that too

catalysts for breakups

just like the human body can be broken down into the smallest singular moleculues so can the end of relationships

I just want you to love me as much as you possibly can
all the love you can muster

I remember how scared I was to tell you I loved you
I thought I would get lost in the words
forming in my mind
swelling in my chest like the ocean, those waves, that foam that could drown it out in my lungs
thankfully it was rather cold that day
and since my lips were so cold it was difficult to form the words
that we both knew were coming
but I was scared to blurt out because it felt too soon, so soon, and perhaps insincere in its delivery
I was bashful.

we can do anything
I can
with you
invincible yet invisible
the likelihood of those two words together
as unlikely as our ability to do anything
past the imagination boundaries of our minds.

the moon leaves imprints
dusts of fairies
on my shoulder
tan lines from its bright saucy nature
that interior glow so reminiscent
of an atomic explosion
that blisters and scars
angry red welts
no rather
this is like the freeze the doctor uses
the rich dermatologists
burning out your warts
creating bruises
deftly shadowing the inner crooks of your arms
that light fails to reach
and is soft to the touch
of baby bottoms

Its like I was free
for about an instant, the split second only your best friend usually captures behind her aunt's old camera
but I was looking in a mirror, aware of every freckle, every eyelash, the tilt of my saucy bottom lip pink with childish lipgloss.
my bottom eyelashes were black like a dolls and I looked like I was looking up, yet I was looking straight ahead. Everything was tilted and my cheeks looked pink.
My face for once, not greasy, but glowing, slightly.  My hair looked longer and caught the light.
I saw myself the way I think you see me. The way I imagine I should be seen. But it was, for that second, like seeing a stranger, when I caught my reflection, at the store that afternoon.

I'm building these dreams
out of my dream houses
with its walls lined with bookshelves
(that you built me)
to hold my manuscripts of stories
(I wrote about us)
in its enchanting nooks and crannies
and open white spaces
with no walls between us
 some nights it tumbles
some nights the walls
and the noises of your music
wears me thin
and I cradle my head and wonder what I have gotten myself into again
then I slip inside my dream
and there you are
in real life
and its one and the same and I am thrilled
to be dreaming once again.

brooding tips and vellum amiss
we sit in pools of silken leather
cracked by winter
and salted by the summer leave
we last longer
and change colours
by time's metronome.

sometimes I wonder if my soul is sleeping in a city I've never set foot in
just aspects of my imagination
uncertain of whether this city even exists
or if its a remaining remnant of a real
long misunderstood
and little said beyond a few sentences
with a darkened moon
and a reddish sky
that reflects itself on clouded days inside my mouth
they play music there so quiet no one could hear
not high pitched like a mosquito
but the low rumbling of a plane halfway across the world
almost innate and interior
you can hear it with your body
as the musicians strike at strings so thick they could be the snakes from medusa's own head

this city is anterior
a figurative of a verb used in the past that is assumed to have happened
but not official
and this is where my soul lays?
not chained like a bird
or caged like a lion
but rather wandering
or leaving me wandering
soulless in another realm
incapable of even understanding the despair we clutch at
or the love we thrive from
and in this I believe I am lucky
sinless and free
to escape from the immobility that extreme emotion provides
and fleeing, desiring, reeling in the books that provide them for me.

CULT FOLLOWING
A CULT FORMING
A CULT CLOSING ITS DOORS TO OUTSIDERS
we have each other
and that is how it feels

everytime I move to take a sip of my tea
lemon seeds appear at my lips
This is disconcerting
because
This is how I feel my life is
all sweetness till the last moment
when a nasty seed appears

the sting of a decisive late night mistake
the fear of thinking things through
and making decisions
based on fact
not dream
or glimmers of silver hopes
not even golden in their ideality.

what I will whisper
what I wont
what I am afraid to blurt out
a drunken nightmare
a tipsy dream
want not what I wont
and all of the above I forget
words that can't be excused by a lisp
but lips they work
to form the words
that could say what could destroy this way
this lightness this air
this crisp autumn breath
this woozy winter dried blood nose
this bloom of spring
and birds they sing
and badgers kiss our cheeks
a slip, my lisp, your lips.

You who found me
has uncovered
secrets of forgotten cities-
secret gardens
and entire biospheres we did not know
existed in our oceans.
You who has found me
know more than those who have written my story
that have weaved it
those three fates in a cave
full of prehistoric creations of sulphurous rocks
made into shapes beyond imagination
or the cognition
of all others.
I sit at the bottom like a mermaid hero
like the villain of other tales
it depends on the reader as much as the writer
I would not lightly call myself a treasure-
other than the erotic kind
that I know has crossed most people's minds.