transference

We've passed from pleasure into pain,
a trimlined segue weeding through
the realm of improbability where sits
your heart and mine.
I have not conquered fear, and it shifts within me
as our mountains stretch into plateaus,
a dancing tendril of daylight creeping
around our purposeful midnight.
I am split open, wounded
for the ruminations, the overlapping rush hour
repetition mottled against our
every-day easy sensual nothing.

You are my sweetest downfall

Sky blue, a new sparkle - (Danish blue; the color of your eyes in June). 21 months of never recognizing. A quick seven months of prolonged wanderlust, desirious deliberation. Fanatical curiosity. I've never asked because I still don't want to know.

Each rise of rose to your cheeks, each maddening flush of my face. Each cryptically ignored register of proximity. You pulled me in when I wasn't expecting to be acknowledged, my tongue smoothly obliging to the context of the conversation that preceeded my entrance. The recesses of my mind tangled over the elevator kiss, trepidation and I dare, but you strayed and brought the focus to a side of you I've never known.

I mistakenly thought you were a passing fantasy.
I don't understand how I've allowed you to become more than that.

Today, you held my stare for a split second longer than average. In a room full of people. We were too close but not close enough -- always, always. There is fire linked between us and you squash the flame.

Intrinsically, I can't tell you if it's going to be or will always be a what if. My head is a blurred mess of fantasy crossing into our greyed-out reality. Did you understand what you wore today? And did you mean to catch my eye so many times, ride out my gaze while talking to everyone else? Did your eyelashes catch on fire from the inferno shooting from my heart?


You are fucking killing me in the most alluring of ways~

Keep with me forward, all through the night

You've infiltrated this house, leaving
fibers of indecency smattered with lust-
I smell you as I walk through the rooms,
a literal fucking ghost meeting me with each pace. I'd be angry
if it meant we'd fallen in love.
You spat the marriage word again, a familiar
intonation of the much-repeated wish to keep
me, tie me down, not let
anyone else have me. But that's not how you mean it.
You don't want me for love,
we want each other for lust. There would be others,
you explain over your naked torso and my lazy fingertips.
Us, and others. Together and separate, all at once and
never at all. For a moment, I think I could
play house with you:
house with a revolving door for our egos and our libidos,
house with an unspoken but laughed about connection.
We didn't get it together years ago, and we won't get it together
now, but where there is nothing to lose,
there cannot be loss.



(i like what we have become/your hands crushing into me/my tongue scalding over you/our naked breasts to our naked backs/you buy dinner/i buy breakfast)

toss & turn around all of the time

I can't tell if I'd rather
A) Get over you
B) Discover that you want me as much as I want you.


Fucking obcrussions.

I don't know why it's so hard to consider this

I am backlash where you are rounded corners easing into synthetic formations. The desert of my heart is aching for a reprieve, and your side-mouthed words, transpiring over your shoulder, do nothing but flame my fire with both animosity and ambivalence.

"A little over the top, don't you think?"

Maybe. And maybe my attraction to you has always been just that.

What do I do with all these letters I wrote to myself

I know it's not a lost cause (you probably are, you know that?) but it is tangled. Weeds to cut through, sidestep the roots.

I'm having a hard time understanding that it's 7pm.

I slammed my car door shut today and caught a glance thru someone else's window. I thought it was you. Such a visceral thought, a synthetic jolt through my already tense body. The same nose, the same slips of hair shaping the chin. How could she have your nose? It's plagiarism, art-copy, motionless irreducible fallacy. Her hair was short, shaped differently. I've rationalized this in the several hours that have passed. It wasn't your car. It wasn't you. "Why don't you just grab her and kiss her?"

Tying your shoes is easy.

We spun NYC in the palms of our hands and somewhere in the spins of the park your teeth let go of my heart and I haven't seen it since. Off somewhere with my common sense, my practicality, my way of making life work. I Freudian slipped anyone for anyway and I told you this class was going to further instigate my natural inclination to think.too.much.

It's not an accident / you meant to touch me

I'm trying to get past this, you know. I'm trying to let go and forget and not meet your eyes (which is something I've never been good at- not even when it's the mystery of just us and four imposingly warm walls and a gloss of chatter running over, under, all through the mess of unspoken theories and hypothetical feelings). I gave word that I was tired of having these feelings. Sick of the absurd unrequited nature of the propelled-by-lack heart/swell I'd grown of you. And I am sick of it, I'm just not sick of you. I gave word. My word. And the very next day, you drew me back in with such a simple gesture, a natural movement that shouldn't have turned my insides to pulsing warm marbles. The original grip, the surprise gentle slide of a caress reserved for my picture perfect romance (the one where I keep putting you in the role of my Other, my mirror image, my like opposite). But there it was: that prized movement, you against me, so simple as we are but so unnervingly complex (as we are). And not moments later, that dead-lock eye to eye match of wit against authority. A moment tangled between reason and desire. My yen suffered the blow of time and place; my security won again.

It wasn't an accident.You meant to touch me.

IDR and I talked about it/you last night. We were covering Lacan in class, one of my favorites, and the idea of the Lack was at the front of our minds. IDR said my confused want for you is due to what I'm lacking in my life. Of course it is. I mean, it makes sense beyond sense. I don't have what I want, I have something that I thought I wanted and simply cannot handle, and I see in you, crazy maybe, what I want. Need? I don't want to need anything, especially you.

I can't get you out of my head.

We only ever do the same things twice

A slow waking. I wake to sleep and I take my waking slow.

There's no mystery anymore. We dissolved it months ago, put it all on the table and massaged away the ugly remnants of things that should have never been. And so now, the words lie evenly, surrender slowly. We make sense. I know you (how/ time // resolved fascination, and I just do). I like it just as it is.

A lazy day [productively lazy with laundry, grocery shopping, tying up of loose ends, filing taxes, going to read for class] restores the soul.

Our latest conversations sit sweetly in my brain. Nothing more, nothing less. It just is.

I stood my ground this week and was, somehow, subsequently rewarded. Thing is, I'm not a doormat. Maybe I was, in that stifling debilitating "former life," but I've outgrown those roots and settled into something less malleable. One of my whimsical fantasies came to life. Fantasy/wish. Semantics.

Day to day, I watch things fall apart around me. Lack of will, lack of want, overabundance of lack of care. A desire for destruction.

You may never change // I already have.

You're onto me / all over me

I am realigned in fragments of your voice;
the tenacity between us stretches,
bends with breaks and flowswith outsourced rhythm. Undulating,
absconding, rudimentary linguistics
that fail my schema and imagery.
Outside the air bites with ferocity;
inside, my limbs weaken with misplaced
modifiers and the tangle of my heart
within your incisors.