stripes of a sunset
stripes of a sunset
lavender for remembrance
gold on my fingers
 these hands are engulfed in paint
my knuckles will bulge through clouds
 a sky with no brush
this open canvas calls me
my thumb stretches South
 like me, it just yearns to be
a part of something largerÂ
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the stars of city dreams
when unsteady eyes beat back
the heavy lids of two lonely fortnights,
let your bare limbs lay off-kilter
until your breath catches the slow pulse
of your heartbeat, catches the tempo
but confuses the Ÿ meter for 4/4
or 2/4, like how 2 of my four limbs
have learned that their center line
is you. like these two hands are
holding the sides of your face
and as irises appear from under
nightâs lashes, I want to ask you
to find your balance here, on me
to confuse waking and falling, on purpose
to not be silent if you feel this too
and 4th,
to know this is only one night of many.
whether we are really waking or falling
we are weâyou are not you, I am not meâ
we are we, now. so if you feel this too,
lovely one, donât stay silent.
 and body language is acceptable.
form words from wild hip rolls
and (unsafe) safety foot falls,
form timely and mysterious idioms
in phrases with too many turns
and not enough stillness
and not enough leaps
and it could probably use another hair whip,
but after all those gyrokinetic gyrations
find yourself laying close to me, find my
hand on your stomach and the stabilization
in my cold touch. lovely one, find again
your balance here, on me. on purpose.
I know you feel this, too, and that you
wonât be silent for much longer. Â
 as unsteady eyes beat back
the heavy lids of this morning,
experience waking into my kinosphere,
a sphere with blurred boundaries and
an indefinite reach past our distal points.
it rings with the deafening silence of
the soundless utterances slipping from
your parted lips. the room echoes with
the operatic libretto of Nessun Dorma
and you are the princess in her roomâ
but you arenât lonely because we are weâ
and victory still chases the dawn.
 we are we, and victory comes at dawn.
I will almost certainly confuse the
tempo of your heart pulses with its meter,
my cold hand might warm and stray
too high to counterbalance the weight
of every lonely, heavy fortnight.
but this the kiss that will break that silence
that will make the night as light as the dawn
that will make the stars of city dreams
disappear again into reality.Â
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We Could Watch a Movie
....or I could push back your hair that looks
like someone took a straightener to autumn,
ignite that feeling when our lips want to touch,
and, burning my way through the formalities of human interactions,
Trace the outline of a ribcage while there is warmth at my fingertips.
Let fever take you, let it sizzle and tickle and
spark that religious fervor, and with no god to cool it down,
you'll soon feel how heat leads to mischief.
I am but a simple artist with a simple passion:
Learning how masters forge in the fires of a new year
the crackling sensation that hides behind the eyes of you,
the masterpiece, smelt from green tea and French vanilla.
I am a tactile learner, so if your dad asks you in the morning "Why the smile?"
Tell him we burned formalities, and I whispered into your lips for a while.Â
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Careful Where You Place Your Feet
This is an experiment in labeling what I am looking for
 The You that I am trying to find canât be simply touched
and
 regret has a salty aftertaste, grains of it
haunt your gums, teeth, tongue,
the words it produces long after you have
forced down whatever you think you swallowed.
 Hands at my back, clawing like there was a second chance under my skin.
 Small hands still resting on my backâ
she placed them there. Her arms were heavy
from all the affairs she thinks she carries,
from bodies pressed together
from holding pressed bodies together
from testing the breath of chest
to see if mine or his is best.
 Are those few kisses all it took
for the very mystery to fade?
Every time I hear your name
Iâll wonder whether to feel betrayed
and
when I see you in a moment of weakness
but commit, stand firm in the defense of
the ancient idea that this outward beauty
that stumps my hands, bites into my nails
is a manifestation of what must be the
most stifling form of inner perfection,
I am encouraged by half my thoughts
to keep honoring the age-old process.
They would have me imagine you as an amalgamation of every colour,
therefore representative of the best, the worst, the most passionate,
the coldest and most forlorn, the unforgettable and the most easily forgottenâ
certainly you are all these things.
 The other half however would remind me that
I need not imagine any bond labeling you as mineâ
because there is none and never will beâ
so next time I should be more careful
in choosing where to plant my feet.
 There is more than salty regret and vodka lodged in this âyouâre beautifulâ.
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Burning through Fingertips
You held the sun above your head
and danced as though the world
had never seen what your
small hands had to offer.
 You donât work out but
your arms are strong enough
to hold up the biggest star.
Even though your hands cup
the sides of it like the head of a small child,
oftentimes threads of light slip through
your fingers, bathing your body in heat,
washing it in the kind of inhibition
that canât be expelled in just one or two rinses.
When I brushed my hand across your cheek,
I winced in pain but soon came to understand
as my fingertips were seared and scorched
that only someone who is still in pain
could lay his body against yours
and not be hurt again.
 If I woke up burning, whose name would I call out?
Would I think to yell for you, to save you,
or would I let the flames engulf the silence
that surrounds where we lie until I am the
coolest place you can crawl to,
until the flames die out
or we die with them?
 I think that I might keep this mouth shut.
I would bite my lip as I first feel the heat
torch my clothes. Through the fire,
I would see your slender, sweating face,
breathing heavily but perfectly unmoving.
I think I might keep these hands still.
I would not reach for you if this burning
has but one intended target.
 Only I could lie down with you.
I hurt enough to hold you
and save you for a timeâ
a temporary reprise.
I am consumed by whatever
that sun chose to curse you with
so I will be gone in the morningâ
a temporary reprise.
 As lonely as I will be again,
yn the ground or wherever I go,
I know that asking you to give
to me everything that you are
again would be too selfish.
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smile. don't make wrinkles.
donât worry about laughing
too much or too often.
smiles donât make wrinkles.
they makes these moments
last as long as I can hold
my breath.
 I keep trying to stop you
from holding your face still,
to help you realize that
you should be here and
not at an hour ago but
 youâll always be moving
time, shifting days and months
around minute whims,
but you and
that same rainy day joke
and seeing that cheery face you
wear whether your day has
made you grin or not
will never get old.
Youâll never get oldâ
not with me.
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Let It Go
the feeling of inadequacy that seeps
through every friendly complimentâ
let it go
just
let it go
the affection you deserve but
you never seem to receiveâ
ask yourself if you can let it go
 and the hand that claims to hold your heart
but clenches too tight and holds you backâ
itâs ok to
let that go, too
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Follow your inner moonlight; donât hide the madness.
Allen Ginsberg (via sailllboat)
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Laughter and Tears
My mother laughs like the world owes her punchlines.
She throws corny jokes and wannabe gang signs up
like the way you toss your fist when you canât dance to the song
but youâre feelinâ the music anyway, and my mother can feel itâ
the orchestra of her bones and the organ that tickles
every part of her fancy and her kissing lips.
Out come her chuckles, flowing over my aches,
Leaving whole and half notes on my door
as they bounce from wall to wall:
whatever pain youâre feeling, they sing,
is only temporary, and if you look,
my favorite son, there is humor everywhere.
 My mother cries like the world owes her a break.
Sometimes, when her sporadic laughs arenât loud enough
to resonate through every room of the house,
I listen to her weeping, and I wonder again
what my fatherâs laugh sounds like,
if it ever brought my mom comfort,
if it ever forged a dam for her river of tears,
if he was ever around
to hear my first giggles
as a child, and to laugh
enough times in response
to be a father.
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Still Waters Run Deep
You grab my hand and pull me close
and squeeze like you know me,
smiling through words shining
like diamonds in the rough of your past.
I hope that this time youâll get your answer
and that my hand will be the one
that will guide you into the future.
Â
Opening my palm to the ceiling,
you traced the lines on it.
You said they look like crevices
and you wondered what had managed to fall in,
if everyone that Iâve loved has left things in them
and theyâve just been piling up
like clothes in a left-and-found box.
 You were surprised when I told you
that I have only known love once,
but that the experience was enough
to inspire more poems than days that
the two of us had shared together.
 Though the way you reached for me then was simple,
in you, I can see the complexities of a melody.
There are enough troughs and crescendos in a poem like you to be
the third song of joy the Earth has ever writtenâ
after the ones that created dancing and my motherâs laughter.
 You grabbed my hand and pulled me close
and asked me what I could see.
I see you as a treasure chest,
full to the brim with brilliant words,
and thoughts, and pains, and worries,
and rays of hope, and tears of joy,
and kisses to cure the silent treatment,
Theyâll brew somewhere deep in your chest
or hide in the tips of your toes until
you just canât hold on to all of them anymore
and theyâll come falling from your lips
to crash land on the ground.
 When you feel weak and empty,
I will pick up the debris again,
collecting the many pieces
and sneaking in some driftwood with my name it,
so that the next time your mind goes blank
my name will float past your eyes
and youâll rescue me from drowning
in the blue of your irises.
 In divine descent,
your hand reached down from the heavens
and pulled me up on top of a mountain.
Like the Japanese emperors of old
you viewed the land and everything your eyes touched
was yours and was covered in ocean.
 Still waters run deep.
In the silence that followed as
your rivers and creeks flooded
streets of London and your waterfalls
crashed down on Minnesota like
your broken pieces of self,
we exchanged a mutual understanding
and we confessed to each other
that even using words to capture moments like these
would still leave so much to be desired.
 Itâs time to call it a night.
But I wonât let you slip awayâ
not this time.
Both our phones are dead
but Midd Rides is still running.
We can go away from here
and lose our feelings
in the mobs around us.
 I still have dances to show you.
I still have time to hold on to your hand.
 When you finally let me go
and wished me a good night,
I was betrayed again by the frailties of this human form.
Frailty, reminded that I am frail, and
that I was not made strong enough
to feel the power of something like this.
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When a writer tells you he loves you, believe him. When he allows the voice of his art to manifest through his own, and not the timbre of ticking typewriters, believe him. When he utters those words heâs held close to his chest for so long, that theyâve practically branded themselves on bone,...
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âPerhaps one did not want to be loved so much as to be understood.â
George Orwell, 1984
(via larmoyante)
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be seeing you
be seeinâ ya, babe,
like a Big Bang theory rerunâ
explain to me again
your Halloween costume.
like I be seeinâ ya out there
and the effects of that body
don't really faze you but
they write books âbout it
anywayâŠ
be seeinâ ya âround
âcause I sure ainât lookinâ
at no one else.
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I grasped the two syllables closest to me, and replaced my heartbeat with your name.
Anne Michaels, from Fugitive Pieces (via growing-orbits)
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That is all I want in life: for this pain to seem purposeful.
Elizabeth Wurtzel, Prozac Nation (via larmoyante)
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insomnia (3)
spotify has notified me on facebook
that you are listening to a song
that once carried us both.
Â
I wonder if you're
just trying to find a way
to close your eyes.
just like I am.
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insomnia (2)
the world as it should be, right?
unfettered by the shimmering
of wet dreams over a barren bed.
like my mind knows better than
my heart what my soul wants, as if.
this world I am stuck in at night
is pretty fucking pretentious, yeah.Â
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