I won't forget the sliding of our words and bodies against each other, making love, making love, making love...

sex and crying,
it's the same

I lay in the dark with my knees to my chest and I wasn't crying then until I was on my back after all we had done, and I said I wasn't ready and that I was sorry and then the tears came and you looked and looked at me and I looked and looked at you and I guess I cry when I don't know what to do, but then you wiped those tears away and I think you were crying too, and I said I want to but I can't, and you ask why I'm crying, wiping away my tears still, I just love you so much is all I can say, what else can I say? And I held you and you held me in the dark, our bodies have never been closer, and is that all that a human being can do?

only spit and maudlin buds of shitty prose, a blueberry scone, a melancholy morning reading Henry Miller, if I could resurrect him now from the curve of each letter, (what if I could resurrect a dead love? he's not really dead though, the one with Brando's spine...), I imagine he would wear sex and sunshine in his eyelashes...and you and I, we'd float around in an orange bowl paradise, with Bosch's strawberries in mind or the lint and what-is-it's from your bed, we'd wear our skin, i'd slip you on like a stocking and pull in tight;

but
you drank my words
before I could speak them,
and you were sliding, sliding,
we rippled a'many against the pillow

I lay in our nest while you showered. Your window stretched outward though it was closed, with the greeting of the leaves and the afternoon light. I sunk into the fibers, into a puddle, watching the empty chair, the unplayed guitar resting against it, and the closet filled with the your clothes; but without your body in them it was like a haunt; just like the bed I lay in beneath the white sheet. I could not stand the sight of empty belongings. When you touch this or that, meeting the strings with a rough thumb, or tucking your hands beneath the pillow or over my fingers, and I grip you tight with my own, an armor of assurance tightens me, and keeps me warm. Sometimes it amazes me that I am alive and you are alive; separate. Later on, I pinched your tear between my fingertips, one of the many parts of you that come without haunts, unless you are not by my side. Then I am afraid that I may become an empty chair, an unattended guitar whose strings begin to loosen, or an unworn tshirt left to hang. As for empty beds, they are for phantoms to groom the lonesome cold.

I guess it was an anxiety attack or a nervous breakdown. I had a throbbing headache. I cried and cried and wanted to drown in my tears. I wanted to shut up my mind with crying. I was hysterical. It may have started after you called me on the phone and told me you were back from Mexico. Or thinking that I could not possibly sink into your skin or any other human being, ever. What if people could melt into each other? I don't know. I wish you were here, anchoring me. I’ve lost my roots—how could I? Do you think god, at first, is like a plague? Or a lonely source of love that wants to be heard, wants to be touched? Whatever it was, I could not breathe and nothing but tears collapsed, gloriously with each heart pound waking and waking and waking over and over like a uterine nymph dying and opening its eyes, dying and opening its eyes in a godless room.

Would I be happy with breakfast with you at six o’clock? Just picture one of those blue mornings: I will be opening and closing my hands because when I am tired it is hard to make a fist, and after grabbing things, picking things up. Here are our clothes. Here are our lives shed and lost around us. At the window I will hug my knees then have a glass of something, and listen to a something-song that leaves me in-between, stirring with a teaspoon, stirring T.S. Eliot (Let me be a mergirl and you a merboy. If only we could sing. I don't want to drown anymore.), poetry into my milk if it be milk, stirring memories I've had but I don't remember anymore, and have forever if time welcomes romantics, and will have...Here you are. Why do I want so bad to have breakfast with you? Before this sacrament, with the little things and the cosmic things wrapped up in the bed sheets, in our hair, mine against your face, we will wake up together. We will fall asleep together. “Can you breathe?” I will ask. I will take a photograph of you and you will take a photograph of me whenever. What about now? The sun will yawn like a child and I will see my skin blemished and tired in the places I try to hide with clothing. Although it is nothing new, someone once said clothing is the closest thing to one's skin, the most intimate. We will wear each other, before breakfast and everything that follows after it. I like to think that, wearing your arm-sleeve against my stomach; you wearing my blemishes on your lips. Nothing will fit right, but it's fine. It's so, so fine. Everything. Only when we're older may we wear each other fluent and complacent; your rough fingertips may be my heels and my soft limbs may be your shoulders; but we promised to never grow up.

laughing like a dirty whistle

Today is my little sister's sixteenth anniversaire. She has a ukelele. I have a pan's flute. I bought a new polaroid camera, Extremely Loud and Incredibly Close, and some Kafka.