i want to be with someone
who sees the way i look at books.
someone who notices
the way my fingers trail over covers
as though the right one will speak
straight to my soul.
i want someone who sees
the fire in my eyes
when i talk about
the things that move me.
i want to be with
the person who makes me
feel like im not sorry,
no need to apologize all the time.
someone who will hold me
so close, so tightly
that our souls cannot be separated.
thats it.
thats all i want.
just fucking love me.


good thing.

i am tired –
it has been a long day,
one still going.
i am afraid to put you in words.
i am afraid of the ending.
but then endings are inevitable,
to be present inside those moments,
has been refreshing,
an orgasm for the soul,
if you will.
i can see the light in the tunnel,
it’s irony, really,
seeing as how i’m just
trying to stay in the dark,
wanting you to be endless,
the kind of forever,
i don’t really believe is possible,
ill say it anyway,
you’ve been a good thing.
such a good thing.


art form.

there is an art to pain.
to putting on that smiling face
and laughing so real.
there’s an art to feeling
like your soul is ripping
down the fucking middle
and still standing straight up
against the brick wall
you keep running into.
pain. pain is an art form.
take that blood,
swirl it on a canvas,
make it fucking pretty.
rinse your brush in tears
you promised you would never cry.
hug yourself.
love yourself.
hurt yourself.
there is an art to pain.



nostalgia tastes like coffee and donuts
at 2 am on a weekend;
it’s a warm beach and sand and a kite,
that refuses to fly vertically;
it’s a wal-mart at 3 in the morning,
and pizza and a brown fouton.
it’s the taste chocolate chip cookies
fresh baked or boxed.
nostalgia is a dangerous thing, especially,
late at night when it’s raining.
it feels like the perfect
head to chest ratio.