Can we sit in your car and let me hear your lungs fill and contract?
I want to listen to your body recycle and shift and regenerate.

I like the sound your mouth makes when you tell me about things you see in your dreams, or when you close your eyes on the public transit that carries you from your small trash yard
to where I’m waiting for you.

I remember you from my point of view, when my eyes were blurry and full of sleepy stars.
The way you hovered atop of me,
the way you collected the night sky and hid its entirety in my irises you were that beautiful,
and the way you rolled your shoulders back and I saw wings. Folded and crumpled from weeks of storage in the trunk of your car, and between portfolios under your bed.

I never thought I’d be the type to love my mother in another woman, but I haven’t slept right since you stroked my hair and read me stories in languages I didn’t know, or washed my dishes, or scolded me for gawking at the way your dress folds became orbits to the beautiful rounds of your hips where I can often see myself.

The horizon was before us,
peeking crisp and red
atop the mountains like a slit throat.

A sudden stillness,
took the dusk in violent capture.
This synthetic copse,
had become an epicenter
which I could not evade.

The illusion of this perverse architecture,
was lifted like a bridal veil,
baiting one to manhood.

I don’t want to write for anyone else anymore.

I want to write letters with your name on it, and all the names of everyone you have ever hated. I want to fold these letters up like butterflies and birds, and boxes, and squares, and all the idiotic things you are afraid off. Swell them up like balloons.

Float them to your window on wind and currents…
current thoughts, current needs, current trends I see in my day to day life without you near.
The patterns of all the things I used to like.
The patterns of all the rain on my garden.

You are those tasteless little moths that eat away at everything I work hard on.
All my letters, when you deflate them and unfold them, will say
“Leave me alone, my life isn’t a tour.”

Then you will stomp on them.
Yes you will.
Stomp them to pulp, crush their creases and ink like bones. Crush the birds, crush the butterflies, boxes… them too. Crush those squares.
Then, all the names of everyone you have ever hated. My writing will finally find me. Everything I write will finally find me, and I can start writing for myself. The way it was supposed to be.

My paper lungs smoke and char around an

My paper lungs smoke and char around an inflamed heart.

Scorches form like rusty cigarette burns inside my throat.

Where we were once elemental harmony,
this typhoon of our love stirs a swelter that
boils my skin ripe and gleaming. 
I shed all resolve and emotion, like curling peels of skin.

I show up wearing practically nothing, to simmer the heat.
To keep the blisters from burning through my chimney sweep mouth,  
where smog gets trapped in my teeth
and the gaps between them.

I smile. Black ash grin. Charred charcoal giggles.

My magma blood cools,
to expose these awful edges where
you end and
I begin.

I sometimes wear sunglasses, just so I can

I sometimes wear sunglasses, just so I can finally look into people’s eyes, she said.
She was wearing a winter coat, although it was spring in the forest. Her hands found her coat pockets.
Just because I can’t look into people’s eyes does not mean I don’t like to, she said.
Her hands were hidden, or I would have taken them in mine. Leaves were at our feet, and I looked at her.
She looked away.

He breathed smoke from his pipe, and into

He breathed smoke from his pipe,
and into my ears.

We plugged them with torn cotton balls
to keep the curling coils,
tickling and ungraspable,
warm and
soft
within my skull.

In this substance,
my thoughts have finally found like company.

Boxes

There’s nothing amazing, about how
losing a loved one reduces your life to checklists.

Everything loses meaning
between the four lines
of those square boxes I check
when I’m done with
something.

Then I forget if I even checked it
off,
so even that itself, becomes meaningless
as well.  

In an indescribably
depressing
ration.