abstract passion

amongst the lillie pads lie each letter of the alphabet…
bathing with potential,
performing a synchronized tango beneath the blanket of steam that hovers atop.
The tips of the Times New Roman are bulging at the seams
waiting to be relieved of their static inertia.

but you, you just slip your leg into the infested water, without hesitation.
knowing.
aware that the letters like leeches will be just as attracted to your blood,
as they are to mine; the type they have become so accustomed to.

I surveyed your supple limb as it returned to the surface.
my eyes revealing a texture so unsurprised, a facial expression so nonchalant.
I already knew what letters your heart would attract from beneath the moss green void.

the inscriptions that the gyri of my brain read,
are something like the way your voice resonates within my eardrums.
and to think…that dialect and those mutual letters are such fresh vibrations to me.
& irony is:
the moss green pond has been good acquaintances with them for decades.

2010, you have gotten the best of me.

he was a fleck in a piece of the marble,
of which constantly graces my countertops.
And I would search it for hours on end
with my fingertips,
to find an instance of what I had;
but what I am now missing.

from the nostalgia I’ve realized that
what it really feels like is that I was a doll

used for play, and positioned on his dresser to stay.
now I am nothing but a stigma
or an orgasm…

pleasure, temptation, regret.
I feel myself as a frost that is melting,
but your focus is lacking the
attention you need
to see that I am engulfed in something,
much more than snow and ice.
I am captured by the idea of eternity.
I am captured by an inconceivable concept.
And now I finally understand why.

pour me a long one.

162 pounds of shame is what you are to me.
you used to carry less baggage (a matter of one too many tears)
so I lent you some of mine.
you opened up your soul, and sucked it in with the force
of a black hole.
this game of giving and taking we had, was so unbalanced.

I told you these lies before, almost two years ago
that “your love is steel wool and my heart is fire”
or “your love is iron, broken down and pumping into my bloodstream”
but now I can say with complete faith…
…that your love was nothing more than a rusty nail
that the soft pads of my feet was punctured by,
and I never even received a tetanus shot.

for now your breath reeks of vodka,
a smell that I have learned to despise
from one too many nights over the toilet,
one too many mornings spent recovering.

I found the recovery I needed in a pair of foreign arms,
but of a similar build as the ones who used to hold me…
..yet I feel a relapse coming on,
so pass me that cheap vodka, I need to get drunk.

maybe?

there you go again, shattering my equilibrium,
tricking my axons, telling them to halt the relay of neurons.
telling my synapse to void any information of your
rusty voice, your musky smell, your rustic-worn-down-appearance
so now my dendrites are all confused,
with impulses at their tentacles preparing ready to blast.
off. with your clothes, lay them on me
lay them on my body.
naked. but so forgein from the one you have feasted your eyes
upon.
so many times did I tell my heart to use
all 30 miles per hour of force it harbors to catapult your footprint
out. with the  awkwardness
in. with the passion.

I distinctly recall your blonde hair ticklers
of a puberty that was barely
there. you lay whispering sweet nothings against my breath
and I inhale your musk,
I breath you in,
this time I am holding my breath
forever. you lay next to me with my eyes
closed. so unlike my legs.

Go tell yourself you’re sexy, Because I am not there to anymore.

It was a sort of fatal attraction
a nail to my cornea.

I loved every millimeter
Of the penetration

as the nail dove deeper
Blinding me of any common sense I once possessed.
I liked to think of myself as the smoke to your cigar.

You would cradle me between the soft pads of your fingertips
And place your mouth on me,

And inhale deep and hard.

I would then circulate throughout your lungs,
Giving you the prerequisite for a chronic disease.

That way I would be with you forever.
But I was tragically mistaken.

I was not your cancer stick,
I was the one hammering the nail into my eye ball
as you watched the blood spew from the burst of the initial hit
and you’d sit back and laugh at what a fucking fool I was.

That’s one thing I have right for sure, I was hammered.
Intoxicated with lust, not love.
Blitzed for even mouthing those letters,
Twisted for ever feeling comfortable
on a chest prickly, shaven out of vain desire.

You never loved me.
You are not capable.
You only love yourself,

Oh yeah…and the mirror.

what a waste of words.

what a waste of money you were.
I don’t even think about the time I spent with you anymore
ever since I lost my wrist watch..
..and clearly, I’ve never had any perception of the matter anyways.
I’ve never been good with numbers.
but when I look at photographs,
all I notice is what I so meticulously chosen for you in an outdated store,
to match your eyes, your hair, your breath…
…your words.

Your words that are now posted under an http address
for the whole world to publicly feast their eyes upon.
Like  a porno, you display yourself…
..raw, naked, vulnerable,
exactly like what you trained me to become for 4 years.

Priorly, I would watch the lies fall from your mouth
like boulders casting themselves off a cliff.
and in the naive state that you aclimated me to,
I would be right there tumbling off the edge like the rest of them.
when I pick myself up, I’d gather my belongings,
check out my makeup mirror, and gaze upon my swollen eyes…
eyes worn down by the extent of liquid that has fallen for you.
kind of like how I fell for you.

you always ask me why I am so dramatic.
I could lie, and tell you it is because of my “full to the brim” past.
I could fib by broadcasting to you that it’s because I have trust issues.
but I’ve always been honest…
so I tell you,

That’s what you get for dating an English major.

the end of the ending.

is there anyone out there who is capable of forgetting?
someone who has the gift of the persistent slip of the mind?
oh, the things  I would give to be able to wipe my mind clean.

clean like the white v-necks that always used to drape across your clavicles.
the very bones that I used to molest in envious vigor as I waged a never ending battle in my head,
a battle that you created, fueled and ultimately (in your absence) destroyed.
the recycled lines that used to spew from your mouth in a half assed attempt to console me,
are being processed in my temporal lobe as my fingers so greedily pound away on the keyboard.
maybe those very lines can be manufactured to create something beautiful,
maybe something as miraculous as my vision of our (now dead) love.

but now, I’ve found something that is even more vibrant,
a mutual kind of love.
a kind of love where the word “smother” doesn’t even exist.
so let this be the last few letters I put on paper for you,
because I’ve wasted far too many words on the topic of us.

a new type of self-confidence

when you found me, I thought I was resurrected,
subjected, and peeled back from reality.
when you found me, I was young
when you found me, I was a liar…
…laying on the cold leather in a silver automobile.
when you found me, I thought you could save me.
when you found me, I was mistaken.
I made the mistake of thinking that you were searching,
and stumbled upon a girl only a dream could fathom,
I made the blunder of retrieving my binoculars.
I slipped up, fucked up and sought salvation
in a boy who needed saving himself.
and my persistent waiting game was played for 1206 days.

when you found me it was like:
a movie scene of a boy saying “catch me if you can”
and galloping away.
Of a winter day that appeared more fertile than the others,
and of a summer day that seemed less vibrant than the rest..
.. playing on repeat for an eternity.

when you found me, I was already found.

TWENTY YEAR REUNION
should feel lethargic
but it’ll feel more  like a blood boiler
i’ve bottled up your dream-like scent for decades
and i can’t let it go
without you telling me to go

i’d stare across the room
at a face so prehistoric, so dismangled, so promiscous
in this euphoric type reunion,
we would meet, kiss, and fight the awkward.
under the covers
but that was all gone.
too bad that’s all gone now.

REALITY
i’ll be sitting there, and i’ll harmonize with the beating of your chest
you will run through my mind and gather my thoughts to make them your own
pulled away from reality, we have consistent attention
on the perfections, and pull away flaws that we have
minimal amounts, but conceivable,
and your face reminds me of the tide, pulling in,
and out.
but then, we’d be filled up to the brim
and you’d be done with me in a flash

yet.. there is nothing more sure than reality.

love triangle

all i’ve been doing is juggling (with 3 balls to be exact),
and nobody ever even bothered to teach me
so all my balls are persistently falling to the ground
and i scatter to retrieve them…prepare my self, and start one more time
but  i know subconsciously that it isn’t one last time, so i attempt again and again and again.
until i understand the concept of collaborating three things into one

but as always,  one of them always falls flat on the tile floor. sometimes two,
but this time, one has rolled away and i can’t find it. no matter how intensely i search.

i always try listen to the song bloodstream to steady my mind, relax me… for even a millisecond
but all i  can think about is juggling and what i’m gonna do if i can’t master the art.