We forget we’re
till the rain falls
and every atom
in our body
starts to go home
Go after her. Fuck, don’t sit there and wait for her to call. Go after her because that’s what you should do if you love someone, don’t wait for them to give you a sign because it might never come. Don’t let people happen to you, don’t let me happen to you, or her, she’s not a fucking television show or tornado. There are people I might have loved had they gotten on the airplane or run down the street after me or called me up drunk at four in the morning because they need to tell me right now and because they cannot regret this and I always thought I’d be the only one doing crazy things for people who would never give enough of a fuck to do it back or to act like idiots or be entirely vulnerable and honest and making someone fall in love with you is easy and flying 3000 miles on four days notice because you can’t just sit there and do nothing and breathe into telephones is not everyone’s idea of love but it is the way I can recognize it because that is what I do. Go scream it and be with her in meaningful ways because that is beautiful and that is generous and that is what loving someone is, that is raw and that is unguarded, and that is all that is worth anything, really.
I just want to sleep. A coma would be nice. Or amnesia. Anything, just to get rid of this, these thoughts, whispers in my mind.
I’m not sure what I’ll do, but— well, I want to go places and see people. I want my mind to grow. I want to live where things happen on a big scale.
Normal is an illusion.
What is normal for the spider is chaos for the fly.
That night when you kissed me,
I left a poem in your mouth,
and you can hear some of the lines
every time you breathe out.
Don’t tell them too much about your soul. They’re waiting for just that.
The scars healed over into poems.
And how can you know for sure
if you are heavy rain on someone’s shoulder
or a puddle in their palm?
”It’s a most distressing affliction to have a sentimental heart and a skeptical mind.
Memories do not always soften with time; some grow edges like knives.
I open your legs with my knee so I don’t have to stain my hands on your light. You are burning, luminescent, and I am afraid that if I touch you too deeply you will devour me as the moon devours the sky.