Poets say things like 

"you smell like December and broken glass." 

But I'll never be a poet 

and the only smell I associate with you is 

ginger green tea 

and the leather bound books 

that you hid in your back pocket. 

I loved you like choking on a cherry pit.

I loved you like a leafless tree.

I loved you like 3 shots of whiskey 

and half a pack of cigarettes 

and it's summer 

and we're stupid 

and you really have no clue at all. 

Some people search the night sky for some sort of greater meaning. 

I search for the right words to string together,

to form a single sentence saying:

Fuck this feeling, just please come back. 

What book are you reading?

I've been a wreck lately and I know that my well-being is no longer of concern to you, but the other day I saw a single patch of grass in this city of eternal grey and it made me cry and it made me think of you.

It reminded me of that night... the one where I fell asleep on your patio furniture and the green blades of summer were covered with tears of the rising sun. My dress was too tight, it clung to me like a second skin. Your tan and freckled hands brushed over me like a warm breeze.
You said, "you're wrong."
I said, "you're right."

I used to collect the words that you'd say to me as they fell in piles on the floor. I'd pick them up off the ground and spin in circles with them. Dizzy, dancing, and delirious.

It's been so long since we last spoke. It's been so long since I last felt the breeze.
And after three years of silence, there's so much I'd love to know.

What book are you reading?
Are you in love?

"People were interesting at first. Then later, slowly but surely, all the flaws and madness would manifest themselves. I would become less and less to them; they would mean less and less to me."

-Bukowski.

Sound City.

The corners of your mouth.

I know that I am not a poet, I'm not good with words, and my thoughts are quite messy.
I know that my dreams are obscure and my heart beats too fast.
I know that our conversations are trivial, I don't impress you, and you certainly don't care about me.
I know.

But I really don't know how much longer I can stare at the corners of your mouth before I simply go mad.
I don't know why you have that scar on your arm.
I don't know where you're going or where you've been.
I don't know why you walk away.
I really don't know you at all.

Tell me.
Tell me about your passions and what you love and hate.
Tell me what you regret and what is your favorite time of the day.
Tell me about your parents. Tell me about your home.
Tell me all the things that have made you into this luminous, lustrous mystery.

I want to get to know you so I can justify this feeling that I already have.

I could write a never-ending novel
with the thoughts that I've knotted up
and placed in the deepest, dustiest corners of my mind.
And this is what happens:
I sit restlessly on a train
heading from one foreign place to another.
People coming, people going,
people laughing, people loving.
And all at once, I start to come undone.

It's been so long since I last heard your voice.

How you and I grew up and how you and I grew apart: Vol. 1

You can't blame gravity for falling in love; just as I can't blame you for the way your back arches ever so slightly when you're laughing at my laugh. I can't be mad at you for having dimples that bring me to my knees and I really can't condemn you for dropping the overbearing weight of my existence from the 300th story window of your life.

But still, I often dream of how things would be if I hadn't endured the fall. Better yet, if the descent had never occurred, at all. I can't blame you but I also can't blame me. Not this time. Not after I tried and I tried and all I got were answers in the form of goddamn static on the goddamn phone line. And so I left. And you left, too.

And It only took a few short weeks for my body on your bed to dimmed - into a silhouette, to be dimmed into a wrinkle in the sheets, to be dimmed into a distant fucking memory that you barely ever recall.

It's so horrible to be human, to have a heart so susceptible to emotion. I can cry all I want, but a sensible person would've known better than to love in such erratic conditions. Someone wiser than me wouldn't dare fall for someone so unsettled and anyone with their head on half-straight wouldn't hold hands with a heartbreaker. But I've never quite been one for rationality and so I collapsed, so foolishly into every inch of you. I laid out my naked bones and exposed my indecent heart and I cut my chest open and I trusted you. I trusted you and you looked straight into my eyes and you crushed it all with a single blink of goodbye.

Every once in a while I wonder about you. I wonder about how you've been and what you would look like if we were standing next to each other right now. I wonder what we would say and what we would do. Every once in a while I want to call you and I really really want to let you know....................
You suck.

I am constantly talking about the bullshit of avoiding negative people, energy, things, etc -
Always talking so trivially about ridding myself of bad energy and stripping my life of malice, virulence, and acrimony. But as I sit here at 4pm on a pointless Friday of my massively meaningless life, I realize:
What do you do when the negative energy is being harvested by none other than yourself?

"Adventure is a path. Real adventure – self-determined, self-motivated, often risky – forces you to have firsthand encounters with the world. The world the way it is, not the way you imagine it. Your body will collide with the earth and you will bear witness. In this way you will be compelled to grapple with the limitless kindness and bottomless cruelty of humankind – and perhaps realize that you yourself are capable of both. This will change you. Nothing will ever again be black-and-white."