i had that dream again. where we broke each other open like pomegranates on rainy sundays, and shared the minuscule insides of our human construction. i understood your attraction to the hawaiian islands, and you contemplated darkly on my draw towards a specific sound created by a machine gun long obsolete in the modern world, embodied by dead soldiers and wars who's cause has long been forgotten. i murmur the same whispering thoughts to a dozen girls hoping to hear the right answer. and if that answer comes i am unsure of how it would be dealt with. i want you to break me from this nostalgia. to tell me i've made the right choices. i want to watch your mouth wrap around the vowels which argue a life i feel so awkwardly suited for. what difference could we make? you and i? i lose it. i lose my rational, and my convictions when you're close. i can't separate yourself from me. i drink your presence like a soldiers last dose of whiskey before the cannon fire burns the grass. our senses fuse and we take on each others delicate burdens between the consultation of our pressed lips. my ear is drawn to your belly like i will hear some inequitable truth about myself in you, something to solve everything. and the only answer i get is to be 
                                                                                                                  c l o s e r.
the veins in your pinky toes are the roots i grow from. i wish you wouldn't underestimate how often i think of you.

god save the queen.

i'm strange in the sense that on hot summer days i wonder what it was like to be our grandparents seventy something years ago fighting the war in similar weather. and that the idea of the heat and wool uniforms and the struggle they faced warms my heart in such odd ways. a bit of bravery, some heartache, and to be a part of something greater is the sentiment i suppose. it hurts my heart to think of us melting away into that ever greater swell of retrospection; the complexity we created becomes a rotting shipwreck on a foreign coast. your muddled words become fragments of old films, the lead roles played by actors who died while our own parents were in their infancy. the black and white glows burn beneath skin. a pressing of the tips of our noses brings the mad blend of inky coolness and burning warmth that seems to only contradict so splendidly when we find ourselves naked and close. you have a character which can surely be traced back to an ancient ancestral bloodline which is completely estranged to that of my own. my top lip to your left clavicle was only made possible in the passing of time by the murderous expansions of our dusty empires.


an ever growing highway carves its path closer and closer to some field we mucked about in years ago. i wrote it a letter in hopes of some reconciliation: "dear highway, i know you can't help yourself, you simply move in the direction you have been told. but we played there, in that field once or twice, while we were in love. i miss her as i would miss the grass and trees that would surely be buried under you." the highway pondered this letter. considered its options, and replied "i'm sorry, i'm a highway, i don't know love. please don't write again as i am very busy." fuck you, highway. hopelessly heartless that inanimate object is. and i guess all i can do is make new memories to replace the old but that seems like a lot of work. since the day she left i've become an artist in the process of figuring out clever ways to break girls hearts within the month; the idea of new beginnings excites me but this feeling rapidly drains with each passing day. it is not their fault of course, every one of them pretty and nearly all of them rather smart, and sometimes while i stand in the kitchen and smoke my last cigarette of the day i even miss a few of them. but never for long. it's a grey and blustery evening out and i consider calling you. that pair of lakai skate shoes which swing in the branches of my tree twirl and twirl and twirl in the wind but they still hold on (maybe they are not so heartless). a crack of thunder rattles my windows and a memory of her and i having sex at seventeen surges across my room and settles between my gut and just under my lungs but of course it fades rather quickly; i wander into bed glad to be sleeping alone.

certain vagueness

isn't it odd that the stars make no noise, i mean, considering their grandeur? they say in its most basic form our universe tastes of raspberries and smells of rum, wrapped in the rumbling of a low flying plane. it was amid these facts and the tender thoughts they conjured that i realized my wrongness with you. to react to such maladroit intimacy, pretending that i could ignore my inability for our meaninglessness to remain as such; and my commonplace. there was not a hint of romance save for the first few kisses and the rush of  unaccustomed closeness between our hips, or maybe it was there in the ever forward march of the brazen spring sun, as it rolled across our backs the morning before my birthday. it could have crept in as i watched you puff away at a cigarette in the parking lot of niko's restaurant (i thought it funny that you didn't inhale) or maybe i caught a glimpse of it beneath the sheets and between your smiles as we whispered adventures to have in the thaw of spring. but what is nearest our hearts is the foremost on the mind and the first off our tongues, i was certainly not yours, and you were never meant to be mine.