tongue secrets.

I keep wanting something. I know not what it is, or where it comes from. I know not of what it ate for breakfast on the 24th of April when she was late for first period in 1996. I still don't know what color it's hair is, or how her eyes reflect in a placid pond, pondering all of her recent thoughts. Thoughts archived in a resevoir deep beneath your consciousness. But would I like to know? Would I like to spoil a surprise so ancient and preserved? So sliced readily and dashed with salt.

I feel as if I'm waiting for a dream. Waiting to exhale Not a dream to come and take me away, but to enlighten me of otherwise invisible things. Secrets. Things only whispered into the ears of lovers. Secrets.

goodnight.

I can feel it tonight. tonight feels like it has before. cool summer blowing through the trees. a hint in the wind that summer is dying and there's nothing I can do, but it's okay. I can close my eyes and breathe in through my nose, smelling what's left of a dying beast. and that's what fills my lungs: the death of something beautiful and freeing.

my leg muscles tighten as I'm flung along the highway. shiny automobiles with red tail lights that peer at me like a thousand sets of angry eyes.

it's a night like this one where I hear everything, and feel it all. and it makes me sick.

it's a night like this where I feel heavy enough to collapse under an invisible weight. a weight that makes my knees buckle and my heavy eyelids fall shut in a slower motion...a plead to sob, "no more".

and I just need to say goodbye.

college

at 1:23 all I hear is the distant ringing in my ears. a ringing that tells me my friends are moving far away from me. a ringing that tells me things I love or have loved are ending. it is a distant ringing, it is. watching two close friends contemplate their lives without each other is troubling. watching them make excuses that make it seem less painful is even worse. "we'll be home for thanksgiving." "we'll be home for christmas." where is the home when one starts fresh? what is a home, and where is my heart.

melting.

my cup of orange juice is so close to being dry. all i drink these days is orange this, berry that, and water. and liquor.

all in this empty infested apartment.

a dull light creeps from the corner of the room and gives different shadows to everything here. it's an odd thing to be the only living thing in this room.

there's a fan that doesn't have a low setting. a television. a piano. and a couch.

this is a living room, and i'm barely alive.

this place has yet to become my home.

i eat here. i sleep here. i shower here.

consequently, i live here. but this is no home of mine.

at this hour when the sun has deserted me, i do nothing but stare.

i stare at the absence of movement and the lack of sound.

and i'm frozen here.

the clocks refuse to tick and the lovely crater-layered moon pays no attention to this lackluster room. lounging about in what might as well be a still photograph.

but i don't care for myself as i devour coffee pots and apple cores. i care..

Glass Eyes: Shattered

With a Life to love, it's hard to find steady footing here with the floorboards creaking and cracking around me. Twiddling my thumbs while my heart tries to escape it's marrow confinement, it feels as if I'm just balancing here with a roof over my head as things really start to move. Wheels start to turn, dreams start to blossom, and glass eyes shatter into a thousand homesick pieces before I can even utter a single syllable.

Wrapped up and tucked in like a loved child, darkness penetrates everything here. My pupils glow and grow to the size of Jupiter. A single deep breath in and out as quickly as this all came rushing toward me, swept me off my feet, and left me dazed and classically confused on the old stained shag carpet. I wish you were here to feel this warm tile beneath my feet. It's a welcome breakfast addition, and a soothing midnight addiction. I could melt into the busted broken tainted kitchen tile with you.

Starlight.

And here I've found myself sitting straight up in bed on this Monday morning, long before daylight has bleached the open sky. I'm suffering from a certain degreee of insomnia, as my thoughts are leaking from me in the form of lazy sweat drops. I read in a book that short term memories are converted to long term memories during the REM cycle of sleep. I long for this cycle to take over my body, as I have memories that need converting.

I spent the night with the sun.

As my planet made a full rotation, I carresed the arms and legs of my celestial being. She and I filled the long night hours walking through and around a house made for kings. The night slowly disappeared and was replaced. There can be only one sun at a time in this solar system. On a couch made to treat patients, we patiently kept quiet waiting for the other planets to stop turning. Lifelessly laying, we retreated and kept the stars from other galaxies burning with lit secrets passing from mouth to ear and ear to heart. This heart doesn't always beat quickly, but when the sun lays her head across my chest..it makes an attempt to love her. It races around its cage and pounds harder than ever to make itself known to the starlight. Uncage this.