happiness is few words. longing i cannot articulate. i'm mute for the moment, but i trust that the cat hasn't gotten my tongue. 

Clearly adequate, yet uninspired. 

I won't push, because I fear that you won't hold up under pressure. 

But my hands are on the wall, I can't tear them away. 

Je vois ta photo, et je te trouve laide.

un sourire ce dessine alors sur ma face. 

Je te vois....

Spring. 

sort of. 

leaves fall, but it's refreshing to jump into piles of them. 

this is what i did today. 

peel back the siding to reveal the frame, knock it down to bare foundations.

the concrete is cold and bare and grey and the snow is falling but the ground hasn't frozen so it just half melts into slush that seeps through your shoes, and you're colder, shivering, but you can't help but stand in the middle of this all and stare in wonder at how simple things look now .

equilibre.

i can't tell if it's a conscious decision to treat me this way, if you are aware of the chain with which you pull me from side to side effortlessly or if it's weightless, as insignificant to you as any other.  

jump, drift, slide from place to place, from one to another.

it doesn't mean a thing.

it doesn't mean a thing. 

your lips on my lips.

and your lips on his. 

.

intelligent. 

.

you're too young. 

.

and i'm too powerless.

.

and i'm strung

and tuned

and played out. 

i cut my tongue on yours

just wait for a taste

my lips are dry and chapped and torn

and stained

but you can't see

your eyes are closed,

because it's not here

and it's not me

you can be happy in...

happiness promised or imagined seems infinitely more interesting than happiness delivered. the mind cannot feel the things it imagines itself feeling as fully as the heart hope, so the only happiness that does not fail to live up to expectations is the one i wasn't expecting. 

skin

these are the words i can't speak, can't read. the page i want to tear out of my note book. 

home.

we scratch at scabs, careful not to bleed to long

but always open, always bare

and another place, another bandage, someone else to stitch me up

but i run to you to bleed it out

home: to that sinking feeling and familiar roads

take the bandage off, let things heal

wear the scar, a mark of pride

i cut the strings that play sad songs

and i'd strangle you with them if i could

but my hands they tremble so

home: to that sinking feeling and familiar roads

you speak in platitudes, i hear fear

you say it's for the best, i loved the worst in you

you say you'll go at last, i won't say no

home: to that sinking feeling and familiar roads

i cut the strings that play sad songs

and I'd strangle you with them if i could

but my hands they tremble so

but my hands they tremble so

take it off

let things heal

wear the scar

a badge of pride

cut the string that play sad songs,

and i'd strangle you with them but my hands tremble so

stale. 

this is not a story.

I've read the depths of your thoughts and written the words that describe just how you feel but I don't know who you are, how you smile, the way your eyes seem to speak volumes, the sound of your laughter, or any of these simple things. I don't know your name, because you're not real and I can't make you whole.

but really all i wanted was to get so drunk that i couldn't see his face in the darkness and i could pretend his lips were yours and that his flesh on mine felt the same as yours might if ever i let down my guard.

my heart is racing past my mind to stumble over you
and i lie in flowerbeds on the roadside as cars hiss by
trying to decide if i'll stand or wait for you to try
and i think that i want to play the fool.

relic.

and now my boredom is uninhibited and all i can do is wish to be somewhere i might be enetertained. and i wait untill my words run together on the page and my thoughts seem unclear, and in the meanwhile bad honky tonk blares and idle chatter, whispers and shouts all work together in the background. it seems somewhat ridiculous to be here. nothing to gain, nothing to be lost, closed case. the final chapter has been written, the mold has been cast and the clay's in the oven: burning.

our three left feet make fools of us.
i pace myself to not appear rushed.
bitter, stale but free of lust
our three left feet make fools of us.

i feel as though i'm living out my last days here with even greater indifference than before, it's no longer uncomfortable to pretend i care, it's excruciating and i can barely fake it anymore: my whole body rebels as i attempt to complete the motions, my limbs ache with my inner fatigue, i am nauseous by default and i feel so goddamn ridiculous for being this way because i know it's not you and it's not this place. it's just me and another setting won't change the scene, and it's all a monologue anyways so it doesn't matter who the characters are.

And i don't know anymore which thoughts are rational and which feelings real- neither fact nor fiction seem to exist black and white are gone and i'm just living in some kind of world of grey sludge, right next to a real world where i can make out the colours and i know what i feel and your touch doesn't seem so cold and empty, and all i want is to smash through the glass keeping me away but i'm afraid to cut myself on on the shards so i'll stay and wait for someone to snap me out of this state.

like an empty glass, not cradled in your hand
instead left to stand on the table
drained of any value
nothing to hold, not held
hold me please, knock me to the ground
shatter me into a hundred cutting remarks and cruel intentions.
And then take off your shoes.

We've wasted time, but not enough
We're sober now, but still waiting
As the clock ticks away and i count down
The moments in my mind

What a struggle.
I struggle, dear, to find the words
to find the acts
to find the place
to find you

Hall

so this is where we stand
on marble floors beneath vaulted celiling
with our hearts in our hands

like pennies to throw in fountains
but they won't sink they just
float there as the water turns red and we wonder what mistakes were made
that could have led us along the worn path to this hall where we stand,
putting on a brave face, trying to control our trembling hands
connected to the bodies i brush against
the friction a minor discomfort on the path to the fountain
where i'll bathe in bloodied water just to wash away your scent

last call

3 am's the hour when our pretensions to greatness, to glory, to feeling alive stagger home, some alone, some with lies.

living in neutral: killing time
murderous rage at my contentednes, but i'm only killing time
passed out on the bedroom floor, but i'm only killing time
the promises i've made to myself are the ones i won't keep
as patient as a day old fly
killing time.

down cobblestone paths we wandered
the sun's glow warming us
and as into night she sank
your hand warmed mine
i heard approaching thunder
and could feel the cold rain
and though i wanted shelter
we walked and we walked and we walked

when we peeled off our drenched clothes
and left them to lie on the floor
your lips felt so warm.

we pass the nights away living them as a carelessly orchestrated loss of those faculties that make us so afraid of ourselves and the damage we'll do.
we're reckless. we cheat and we lie and we charm and it doesn't matter anyway: i don't care, i don't care, i don't care anymore.

Drunk and lagging but not ready to go home. Choose one of the manye cramped stalls, she fumbles for a lighter, pulling a notebook from a purse along with a vial, no doubt one of many, containing more pills than you would have thought for such a small space, and she starts crushing them and I'm out of cash so I roll up the receipt reading my currount account balance, a healthy 18$ in the red, and we snort the pills and walk back out to join the others. We're still dancing, and I'm still sort of drunk but my buzz is fading and the pills don't seem to do a thing for me.....

Nothing but idle kids with idle minds in altered states of apathy.

Every saturday afternoon is hope, every evening anticipation...
but every night is the same bitter disappointment you've tasted before.

dinner and drinks.

Smoke rises in a trail and disperses, i look down and trace it back to your lips, red against your pale skin and the dark sky, your body gently lit by the glow from a kerosene lantern that slowly hisses, the only sound i pay attention to despite the smooth jazz soundtrack and the din of conversations about art galleries and their wine and cheese receptions, where you mingle with bureaucrats and bankers who'll pay thousands for that limited edition print of a perfect moment from our lives that you've captured on film, squeezing the soul from us with each flash.
And Paul leans in and whispers something in your ear, and you laugh politely because it's the thing to do but when you look at me i can tell you're miserable and i try hard to look like i care but it's forced because i don't and i wish you knew.