spring hurts

because i never finished loving you

i should know better than that

oh, and i
i don't take it lightly
the trouble that i've gone through
to get you to know who i am

i'm just dreaming of tearing you apart

i've got the scars from tomorrow and i wish you could see
that you're the antidote to everything except for me
a constellation of tears on your lashes
burn everything you love, then burn the ashes

last night

last night I dreamt that you came to see me
for no reason other than you missed me & couldn't sleep
and you knelt on the ground beside me
and kissed my hands
and I touched your face
and tried to hide you from everyone I knew

I was almost glad I awoke crying from another, harsher dream
by which time I had nearly forgotten your skin

What a sad, beautiful, tragic love affair.

In dreams, I meet you in warm conversation.
We both wake in lonely beds in different cities.
And time is taking its sweet time erasing you,
And you've got your demons and, darling, they all look like me.

Paradise

Last night I dreamt of swimming pools and hidden beaches, jewelry boxes filled with forgotten pins and bracelets, lunch with a new friend, mistaken burritos from a truck off the beaten path, slipping out of work early in the hopes of kissing a boy.

"We accept the love we think we deserve."

I know there are people who say all these things don't happen, and there are people who forget what it's like to be sixteen when they turn seventeen. I know these will all be stories someday, and our pictures will become old photographs. We'll all become somebody's mom or dad.

But right now, these moments are not stories. This is happening. I am here and I am looking at her, and she is so beautiful.

I can see it, this one moment when you know you're not a sad story. You are alive. And you stand up and see the lights on the buildings and everything that makes you wonder, and you're listening to that song on that drive with the people you love most in this world...

 And in this moment, I swear we are infinite.

The Perks of Being a Wallflower, Stephen Chbosky

Next Train to Somewhere

I don’t remember much about the first night it happened, if only because it has gotten lost in all the other times it happened. They blur together in the fog of memory, becoming a jumble of sad sweat and silence. I remember moments, of course, but not the sequence in which they occurred, not which days contained which moments or which moments were tied to others or which moments were perhaps repeated.

I don’t remember it being awkward and clumsy, though it must have been. It must have been full of half-smile laughs and apologies, bumps and falls, too hard or too fast or too much in the wrong spot, as it always is the first time with someone new. I don’t remember what he was wearing, or what I was wearing, which sheets were on the bed or which positions our bodies ended up in. I don’t remember how long it lasted or how many times we each came before we were too exhausted to continue on beneath the bright moon of the uncurtained window.

What I do remember about that night is lying on the tiny mattress as he snored lightly beside me, tucked up against the wall, and thinking that this didn’t really change anything—though perhaps it should’ve.

We made quite a mess, babe. It's probably better off this way.

And I just want to tell you, it takes everything in me not to call you. And I wish I could run to you, and I hope you know that every time I don't, I almost do.

Funny how my insides still leap at your words.

So you exist again. Somewhere out there, you're still alive. And I wish I didn't care.