Thursday, July 28, 2011
That the way light bounces off your skin has nothing to do with who you are.
That smokers believe they need to die a little, just to go outside.
That art has always hated the frame you put it in and would lash out, kicking and screaming in the streets, if you gave it half a chance.
That the way lovers touch can not be communicated in words, no matter how often or how hard you try.
That your body fights your mind and your mind fights your soul and your soul fights the world, to try and figure out what you are.
That sometimes, you're just tired.
Written by Me at 11:11 PM
Monday, July 25, 2011
You reach a certain age where you learn how to walk through a crowded party without stepping on anyone's feet. You reach a certain age where you learn how to wear the skin you've been given. You reach a certain age where you can look at your relationships to other people completely objectively. Apparently.
Written by Me at 11:52 PM
Wednesday, July 20, 2011
Monday, July 18, 2011
(We are all just, so preciously, human).
This is what makes the continents stay at bay (This is what makes us aliens).
This is what makes the world float (This is what makes us drown).
Between you, the ocean and the sun, we can make something sink (To breathe the air).
This is what makes the distance between us.
(Please be human to me).
Written by Me at 7:47 AM
Wednesday, July 13, 2011
Monday, July 11, 2011
Thursday, July 7, 2011
Wednesday, July 6, 2011
You arrived as light, drawn together by magnets placed here by distant stars.
You bloom late at night, at the same time as me or seconds before and after, away from the strange low eyes of the winter sun.
You will become the poetry that kills my ideas. Because ideas can be questioned. And you gave all your answers years ago.
Written by Me at 3:36 AM
Monday, July 4, 2011
I'm made of dreams and memories.
I am made of misheard whispers in the dark.
I am made of glances across crowded rooms.
Of the closeness of strangers in a line outside a movie.
I am made of the corners of your mouth.
I am made of awkward elevator rides and the lack of security one finds on a doorstep, at the end of the evening, when one has enjoyed the company of another.
I am made of the train tracks that take me home.
I am made of ghost notes, from songs you never heard.
So forgive my absence. But I was never really here to begin with, anyway.
Written by Me at 5:15 AM