i think my cat has eyebrows.
seriously.

Theory.

Do you like the idea of being an idea. No past, no future, just an idea that expands and contracts to a person’s liking, existing completely in theory, and therefore perfect. You would be untouchable, on a pedestal, wanted and needed and never had. You’d be a standard, a greatness of sorts and admired. And maybe even when the person’s gone and moved on to something else, you will always haunt them. And you’ll be a ghost, a ghost of something that could’ve been magnificent.

But then, you know, you’ll probably ache as they ache (if not more). Because then you will be restrained and held back, and always bound to be without. You have to hold yourself above wanting because wanting would make you concrete and human and possible, and that would defeat the purpose. As much as you would destroy, you would also sort of be destroyed by your restlessness.

You will want to want. And be dismantled by something vivid. And had as much as craved, and satisfy as much as deprive. But then you’d be achievable, something to attain. Not painted and carved and sculpted and made immortal in art and memories and endless regret.

and shine.

I want to dance with you in the morning
when loosely we spin and stumble and start

When nothing looks as living
as slow breaths and waking hearts

When work and play are nothing 
and night is cradled close and sung to sleep

When we can barely clutch our coffees
and company's all we can manage to keep

I want the morning to belong to us
hung-over from the beauty of slumber
reveling in the light of beginning
dwelling in the constant effect of after

P (A U B)

He is so monotonous. He is a character profile for something that trembles in the light of Greatness. He is probably more than I know; though what I do know, I value in all its usualness.

And then there's you, beautiful complicated thrashing you. Radical and unwilling and impressionable to the subtle and disarming. You are more than you know; and you so often wish, as I do, that you could see that.

He is so impressive, but then so are you. You both keep your secrets close enough to touch, then make sure that close is never close enough. Why do you hide, why do you tease.

You're a vague figure on a white background in matte reds and navy blues, throwing your stories in a canvas bag to-go, for leaving, for later. He's black and white and dripping with saturation and dyed in contrast, pulling his pictures out, parading his life a minute at a time.

But inside me, your secrets are piling up, and his are leaving in quarters.

I wish I could write you out in better colors. I wish I could pull out the patterns and stitch together a you and a him and an entire web of people whose eccentricities make things easy. But unraveling you is so much more fun.

Though tiresome, and sometimes painful.

As reality always is.

Belated Happy Birthday.

I wish you could see yourself from behind my lenses. 

I don't care how confused you are. I don't care how lost or found or wandering you think you are. You are right here, right now, and so am I. Jesus, the lighting is perfect. I love how it cuts you up and slaps you back together. It makes you look like, well, unordinary. And you aren't, but it makes you look the part.  

I love the way you feel -- all the ways you mold yourself to fit your idea of beauty. In all your trying, you've managed to produce something conducive to holding and leaning and walking next to and wanting. And I like how your emotions are bottled and fluid and sometimes, when they spill over and I'm there to wipe them off the table, I get to see glimpses of what you're really like. God, you make me smile. 

I hate how even when you do nothing, you are unordinary. I hate it. I hate you. Because it isn't fair for me, and it's not good, and I don't want to have to deal with you. But I do anyway. Could you please ruffle your hair more, thanks. 

I don't know, I guess I just wish you would see that you are interesting and lovely and created for greatness -- I mean, I guess everyone is, but I think you could really do something. You matter so much to such a vast class of people. And to me.

I know there is nothing to chase after or create or revive or anything. I know that there is nothing; and that's okay. It just hurts sometimes even though I really wish it didn't. I know it's my fault. I'm sorry; but at the same time I guess, I don't mind, because the pain of having you is better than the pain of not.

This is just to say, um, I wish I got you something.

Happy Birthday.

he said, she said.

Promise.

i.
to stay, to stay, to stay,
lilacs and lavanders and faerie dust
she flitted and floated and was
no one's to keep
and no one's to hold
and safe in her sleep

day after day after day
seafoams and forests and faded light greens
he scampered and scoured and
crept in the streets
sprawled on his back
labored and lean


ii.
i was perfectly fine trapped in my cocoon, never waking for anything or anyone and being just and being alright -- nothing to worry about -- and the walls smelled like flowers and the days would run from me. the clock collected dust behind a table, still unused.

he smelled like salt and felt like callouses and woodwork, but his eyes were gripping and his smile was something else and there was a sadness about him i couldn't quite put a finger on.

he painted my life different shades and i let him keep me up at night. i lost my sleep and didn't mind.


iii.
i was perfectly fine dying alone, resigned to letting be and letting go. dirty and missing and not exactly alone. just enough to keep asking why, for what, how much longer. the sidewalk reeked of piss and rust and drug deals and fist fights and the hours would weigh down on me and my brain could barely keep up. the stolen watches under my coat, a constant reminder of all the time i was losing.

she smelled like meadows if meadows could kiss. she felt like feathers and silk and elegance and beyondness, beyond me. but she stepped forward and let me speak and when she looked at me, she bore a sadness i couldn't shake. in her smile, she hid the sun.

she held me in her arms and in her whispers. in the soundness of her sleep, she saved me.