journal #9

seeing you this afternoon was like looking into a crystal ball and remembering what it was like to love with all of my senses and lose it just as quickly, but i'm glad we can stand there and accept each other for what we have become and forgotten. how many cigarettes we have smoked since i met you, how many beds we have slept in, how many other people we've shared the sheets with. how many kisses were in between the last one we shared. how many times i forgot you, remembered you, and forgot again, only to remember shortly after. how many times i saved all my hope for this moment in my life where i meet you and my legs stand strong. to accept you and me, to accept that i will love you but i have left you, finally, where you belong.

Journal #7

choose the highest bidder. can't decide if it's me or you, which to choose. safety and precaution over danger and tear-stained cheeks. are you something i wanna pick up and carry home? no, you are not. you've gotta be left where i found you, i shouldn't even brother looking into you, but jesus it's too late for that, isn't it? but isn't that defeating purposes of man and life and love and hope in general? or is it just one day with a brighter smile? it is not my decision.



i'm too fucking high for this shit.

Journal #6

glory is being able to hold you with no feeling. look into those gemstone eyes with strong knees, a firm grip on my spot. answer the phone with a steady voice, choose who i love without concern, constraint, or comparison to you. Look at him, think "It's Him" not "It's You."

The gift of falling out of love. seems like repayment is in my future, hope it is, know i deserve it, wait for it. something new, something old, something borrowed, something you.

I WANT YOUR TEARS

god damn, baby! false pretense to think we could occupy one another's space. get in my bed, down under the waves and mountains of monumental covers, bury our heads in each other, that makes us charlatans after not too long. whether you love me or you use me i'm still a pawn in a bigger scheme of plays and recounts of ability and action. you've gotten this far, but my hips have a way of saying, "Not tonight, make it count, please God, make it count, please, please." i fucked it up but at least now you know i'm not full of bendable appendages, i'm made up more of a series of situational accuracies, part-time paramounts, roots, creation, confusion, smoke. ready to write about somebody knew, my life is a series of reconnections;we'll stick because when it starts it never changes and we are able to pick up at any point. it mostly comes down to, "jesus christ, that's a pretty face" and it's one i gotta hold, gotta kiss, gotta see. don't need to, never need to. i can choose to ignore, it won't cover me anymore in all that lust, that desire. but when i leave you again for years and years i bet when we make another our hands will feel our bodies like they do. like we find them now drawn to hips, cheek, ass, tits. nails scrape the skin on backs like chalk. always gotta touch my face, you can't stop kissing my lips. my young, young lips. young and new, young and yours.

Journal #5

time to get out. sick of your bullshit, time to cut you off. but let's not be children about it, no. it's so much easier to walk away without having to put any more effort into it. a little less calamity and a little more disinterest would suit us so fine. ah but the most trivial part of our pursuit to one-up the next player is that it's never a two-player game; that is, there is always someone else that this could be about. some other faces i've got lined up and crossed off 'cause it's time to go back home to the friends i'd like to keep.