you're my escape routei want to escape with you. i want you to meet me halfway
and run away with me, take the skyline for our lifeline and
see where our racing pulses will lead us. i want to travel to
infinity and beyond, but your heartbeat is across state maps
and in the shadows where i can't reach and when i open my
eyes in the morning i am alone in my bed sheets and gasping
because it hurts and i miss you i miss you i miss you next to me.
i want to crash and collide and drift into you. i want to feel
the ocean entangle us both as we lick salt water off our lips
and press our skin closer together as we watch all the waves
wash away the spaces between us, between our reaching
fingertips, between our mismatching twin sized beds too many
miles apart. but truth be told, we're not there yet and i'm dancing along
the currents alone waiting for the world to rotate and bring us closer.
i catch myself getting mesmerized by this moonlight more than i
ever should but i'd give the world to fold the sky in
five year planyesterday, you died.
today, i was sad. today, i told myself i would bring mauve roses to your funeral. today, i said i would say a few words, a few truthful words. today, i knew i would always miss you.
tomorrow, at your funeral, i will sit in the uncomfortable plastic chair next to your grave. tomorrow, i will cry along with the trees and the ladybugs in the grass. tomorrow, i will stay up all night, rereading all of your love letters. tomorrow, i will feel empty.
next week, i will not eat. next week, i will buy a book of poems, and read it six times. next week, i will call your phone number, one more time. next week, i will try on your clothes, to smell you again. next week, i will wish i was dead.
next month, i will move out of our house. next month, i will find a new lover, so i won't feel so empty. next month, i will work until i am dead on my feet. next month, i will try to forget who you were and what you meant to me.
next year, i will go back to your grave and leave more mauve
tautegorical -collabSomedays, I'm the sound of slamming doors
Shutting out the whisper of threehundredandsixty apologies
That maybe just don't deserve to be heard
And still other days, I'm television static
Surfing channels faster than fingers can click
Speaking through the mixed up voices
Of every game show grin, sitcom laugh reel and car crash news anchor out there
Trying to piece together the sentences I've been meaning to say
Since maybe my words aren't enough
Even if they are saying the same thing
[I'm almost fairly sure you deserve prettier phrases
than these chapped lips could ever mumble]
And Im standing here in crumbling doorways
Pulling suburban needles from your veins before
The infection spreads; tell me if beyond your
Glassy-eyed stares you can feel something
All I want to know is that beyond the numbness
That is suffocating your bones and crush
To WriteI want to write something beautiful.
I want to make you smile as you think of me, laugh at all the stupid things that I've said, I want to make you think about me. I want you to reminisce about every stolen moment we've had together, every kiss, every touch that we've shared. I want to make you think of how we speak, how we are together. How perfect everything is when we're in the same room. When I write across this snowy page, I want the dark black splotches to jolt your memories, taking them back to when you would stare into my eyes and remark about how dark they were turning, and wonder why you had that affect on me. I want to write you something filled with memories. I want to write about you and me.
I want to write something scary.
I want to write about the fear I felt; how I didn't know what I was doing and I've put myself- my heart- in your hands. I want to write about trust and how much you mean to me, and how love is giving someone the ability to destroy you and trusting them
atonementI want you to know I'm sorry.
I never thought about how much I have to be sorry for until I was up all night and far too early in the morning from a Thursday to a Friday, and couldn't fall asleep because my heart was hammering and thundering and seizing with a regret sort of panic. I called you across six hundred and eighty three miles and an ocean of guilt and whispered I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry a thousand times into the receiver until I had no voice and you were saying my name through an accent of sleep and telling me I have nothing to be sorry about. But I do.
I'm sorry I didn't write you the most beautiful love song in the world. I'm sorry my fingers can't play the guitar to bring cities to colour and do better by you even though that's what you deserve. I'm sorry I can only play four-string chords and sing too softly for you to hear over the guitar. I have clumsy fingers and bashful vocal chords and an ineloquent tongue but I promise that every beat of this heart is for you,
i don't have the wordsI'm getting used to this feelingnot because it's comfortable. In fact, it's lodged itself between my lungs and my ribcages and makes every moment a gasp for air. But I've grown into itinto relearning how to breathe, into talking in more of a whisper so that people feel like they need to be closer just to hear what I'm saying, into rewiring my circuitry so that every waking moment isn't spent deciphering what's in my head.
Since the thing is explaining that would be like trying to hold up the sky with just the palm of your hand. Millions of years of the atmosphere and gravity existingcompletely unyieldingall reduced to you with the entire world in your grasps. That's how big this feeling is. The size of the sky couldn't even hold it. Trying to tell you what I'm thinking is like figuring out what actually keeps our hearts beating even when we have no idea. Or reasoning how it is that even after someone leaves there's a piece of them alive in every person that's st
we're all standing still.He's not coming back this time.
It's hard to remember that sometimes when a door shuts, it just stays closed. There's no other consequence. No other opportunity. Just one more way you can't go. One more person that you can't follow. Sometimes, you're just as stuck as you feel so it doesn't matter if the earth travels one million six hundred thousand miles through space every day. You are in the same place as yesterday so all that other movement is just superfluous. It's not bringing anyone closer together. It's not going toward any sort of destination. There is no end. No point. It's just ceaseless movement through an ever-expanding universe that only keeps getting bigger until you're simply a tiny pinpoint that feels absolutely alone. And meaningless. Unnecessary. And all of this just makes it feel overwhelmingly true.
The truth is most of the roads here only go one way.
Some days, you believe you can get out of here and live somebody else's life in some other place and with all of th
More Than A Physics TestShe said she wanted to touch
the ceiling of the world.
We climbed into the hot air balloon
the very next day.
It was warm, almost too warm,
but her hands were cold in mine
and her gaze was frosty,
her eyes starlit and heaven sent.
I asked which ceiling she'd prefer,
in hopes of stretching a smile across
that galaxy expression.
It was a multiple choice question:
a) The troposphere
b) The stratosphere
c) The balloon fabric in the hot air balloon
She picked d) none of the above,
and ignored the smile waiting for her.
She (distantly) wondered where we would soon be--
a) Heaven, slowly reeled in as if caught on a fishing hook?
b) Space, floating breathlessly away from each other, timeless and eternal?
c) Earth. The Eighth World Wonder, two human-shaped craters of an aspiration so
high it ended up being on the bottom.
I could imagine the tourist mommys telling the tourist kiddies why
they called it a world wonder:
"it's hard to imagine two people so incredibly stupid"
november *you are a storyteller
and i want to know
you are willing to
share with me. i will
become a human sponge, and
soak in the words that
spill from your lips. they
are scarred and torn, but
they are yours, and that
makes them inexplicably
and fresh. you are young
and unexplored, and i am
a traveler. sometimes
we journey into
places that do not deserve
our presence. this is
expected, and we
must adjust ourselves to the
new surroundings, which
is easier said
than done; my compass points to
an endless plain, marked
with oddity and
a heart made of kaolin.
i promise not to
share your crevices
with anyone; sometimes we
voyage to places
where we overstay our welcome.
but that is acceptable.
i'm a traveler
and home is where you
feel the safest. and the most
aware of your old
ground for a new wanderer
with tales they will share.
they are made of mud
and heat. they are twisted, but
the minstrel, are now
mended and sew