in dreams i dance with you

i'm too fucking scared to call,
fear of silence, of not knowing what to say or better yet
knowing what to say but
too afraid to actually say it in fear of the silence i'll recieve from you.
i love(d) you, still do
but  in a different way.
courage to speak your mind and not back down
but also knowing when to admit you are wrong is what you
have taught me.
and i was wrong about a lot of things- wrong for falling for someone who is as stubborn as i,
wrong for
romanticizing your suicidal tendencies, thinking i could perhaps save you-
finding out that you never wanted to be saved.
finding out that you never had any love inside for me..
you gave it all away to a girl who could care less about you now
you've written the songs, thought those thoughts constantly, wondered-
what she was doing-
and how you will deal with it when you have to see her face again.
and it always happens this way, the lover
falling
in love too soon-
too much-
and being too kind-
and you finally realize that your time was up and that it doesnt matter anymore that there was no love there for
you
because
you
grabbed all you could from him and he gave it to you.

empty stomach

when did we become strange collisions of beauty and violence?

My head starts to feel dizzy like a whirlpool,  the ones where as a kid you and all your friends would walk or try to run around the outer sides creating this hurricane of dreams in the middle and then stopping and letting yourselves float with the current. When it starts to feel like this I get nervous and scared that it's coming back. That feeling where nothing matters anymore and your worthless and your life is one big fuck up and a waste of time. I know it's not, I know that I got a handle on this for once, that I can finally deem myself as having some kind of fucking potential. And it only took what? Twenty odd years to get here.

Tropic of Libra

henry miller playing
in the background on
a tape you had made.
12% malt liquor resting in our
blood and stomachs.
you fucking me,
i fucking you, and us-
fucking each other.
i laugh to myself  and
thank the gods we're both people
who read books.

Elvis

elvis costello would have given you
a high five
if he would have seen
what happened later on that night.

the romanticism of suicide
has been murdered.

for its own sake

a life ruled by passion rather then reason
you hide from this, run, dive under desk in classrooms
like they taught you to do with the storms.
the fall occured, Augustine was wrong
lust still runs around the city, crosses the borders, still
smokes cigarettes.
pessimism, irony
lust does the dance of the seven veils
and tells the seven deadly sins to fuck off.