I stay up because sleeping is accepting defeat one more time.

There's a gray curtain I can't find a way to open

and it's making me heavy and itch when I breathe.

How do I show you everything I mean without telling you first

so that I don't scare you too much?

I stop the cycle before it starts and I'm imagining shadows

and there's no real end to this knotted clump of string,

but picking at it feels better than just holding the heft of it in my pocket or palm.

Stop. stop stop find a better path. nice better well good. It's too much difficult

my head is cotton you're too much to handle I don't want to go here let me go

stop you're hurting me no I don't mean it yes of course what do you mean

when I say I want many different things from you I don't have any right asking for.

I'm too tired to sleep.

I had assumed we'd all picked our separate corners

and that was where we'd spend our time,

but it turns out there's a whole world to be seen

when you turn around.

And I never even noticed.

It seems daft, now. Now I know those long hours

that held hands to form years could have belonged to me,

rather than the corner. Minutes would tick and I'd form a blind contour,

following cracks and chips of paint with my fingers and eyes.

I thought if I scratched at them hard enough, I'd eventually get through to

wherever it was I wanted to go.

But two hands worth of bloody fingernails didn't earn me

what simply turning around would have.

An escape? I don't know that it would have been, to me.

I feel I would have taken one glance at that open rolling picture

and found a vicious fear had seized me, and that

I would have never opened my eyes again.

For all the words I have found to describe what it is I'm looking for,

I have found more numerous still those that would tell you why I have not

run to go and find it.

I am reflected in each person I see. I will always make you a part of me,

and it is less and less through a conscious effort that I achieve such aims,

and is now a reflex, holding that duality of self in my head.

You're so natural, the contours of your mind

settling and locking into the grooves of my own,

meshing and folding into an entirely different landscape

that is still somehow distinguishable as two separate halves.

Though I feel if I were to fall into a hole and die, or be carried away by a swift storm,

you would begin to fade too.

You wouldn't be able to stop it, and you might not realize what was happening,

might not perceive how deeply scarred you were,

but you would fade all the same.

Slowly and in small pieces you'd let yourself fall away from the vigor of living.

It is wrong to derive any spark of something hopeful from such a drastic picture,

but I can't help it. The ferocity that I have yet to fully unearth within myself,

with which I believe in the above, is what drives me further forward.

Without that focal thought to build around,

a structure so sound,

There would be just a shell of me.

I find no higher truth than you.

It's the moment when you look down and see footprints overlapping,

bringing you back to a place you never knew you wanted to be in,

that you begin to get an idea of how lost you are.

Sometimes you're lucky, and you realize what or who it is you were looking to find

right then and there, and you begin to set on a new path, solid and sure in your step.

But most often, you'll lift your head and look every which way,

sure you were meant to go left, while someone is pulling the string in you chest to the right,

and you'll find yourself even more puzzled than before.

No one tells you their names, and you're the last to know what is the task at hand.

So rather than attempt to entrench yourself in the present matter,

you keep walking forward, head down and heart set.

You'll only end up back where you started,

but there's a certain comfort to never really knowing where you belong,

rather than staying put and seeing you could have been stuck in a place you know you shouldn't be.

She's allowed to say the things I've so dearly wanted to plainly state

for such a long time.

The weight with which she throws around her words

is incomparable to that of mine.

If I were to utter the same phrase,

the world we've so carefully constructed together might crumble, indefinitely.

I have to avoid that at all costs, as it's the only home I really know.

We worked so hard towards that end, and for so long.

Give yourself some credit, this victory required a lot of subtle work.

But let me tell you a secret:

Soon, I'm going to ruin it. I'm sorry.

I love you.

Today I watched a fish die.

he was very tiny.

Out of the midst of the rest of the calmly floating creatures rocketed a body so frantic.

Like he was wiggling out of a straight-jacket.

He dashed himself against the sides, fellow inmates, and surface, stopping and going in sudden spurts.

The first time he stopped I thought he'd died.

Surely he'd realized his body was failing him and give in to the inevitable end.

But he kept struggling.

I don't know if he was trying to flop from

the water into the outside world,

so that a new land would be the last thing he ever saw,

so that he'd know at least he went somewhere, did something,

or if he was racing towards the end, eager to get away from the monotonous existence of a fish.

Maybe he was simply grasping for the few moments of motion he had left inside him before it all went away.

I don't know that I could ever be happy

knowing when I was going to die.

But at least in those last few hours, when I knew

there was no saving myself,

I hope I would spend them peacefully.

Calmly accepting that what I had done up to that point was all my life could count for.

Maybe that life will mean a great deal to a few.

But even if by some chance it ends up meaning nothing at all,

I hope I will have the sense to let it go.

I want to make it better.

No, not better. Just good.

I want to make things good for you.

Because I see you, and I know I'm right here,

I am home.

Wouldn't it be lucky if you found a home in me?

I could hand you my presents instead of having to hide them,

waiting for you to prick your finger or stub your toe on them.

But maybe this way will serve me my purpose.

I will mend your wounds as you unfold your treasures,

marveling, grateful, at their beauty, wondering where they came from.

I will sit with you as you breathe in the sky, thinking of who it must have been that left it,

so very sure you know. You will be wrong.

I will accept this,

and I will keep hiding your presents.

Perhaps we begin where it ends,

strong in our sorrow but for the fissure splitting our sides,

doubling us over with remorse,

as what we could have done better, cleaner,

is so much easier to distinguish as we turn our heads behind us.

But it is now that we'll stretch up and away

as two branches of a tree facing east and west.

Though I am thankful that we are connected by this singular body,

hearty and alive.

I am happy it reminds us there was a time it could have chosen

to make us grow as one.

It makes me happy, as do all possibilities, they way they grow into infinite branches.

They are my friends.

What is wrong with our generation

that we can't grab gravity by the throat

and shout and scream "No!"

into its gaping mouth?

I'm breathing colors. In: purple, out: hazy grays.

This scene is a gift, wrapped in glitter and bright lights,

pristine and whole in its ingenuity. From outside, windows from wall to ceiling

frame it, as if it were art.

Step inside and know, feel history has taken place here.

Delicate brocade runs up the walls to meet with the twilight,

where the mesh and fold into one another.

Follow the spidering maps in the wood grain in any direction

and surely you'll uncover a secret.

North to the dining room table, all cherry wood and stark indifference

to meet the plays of lust and dirty lies that have surely occurred

inches over its surface. Look there now, see them hover?

East will take a wobbling guest, buoyant with bubbly,

to the residency's flower beds, pretentious in their simplicity

amongst such lavish settings. Keep watch for the snakes.

South. South goes up and up and up in a corkscrew of wrought iron

and silver then dies out upon reaching its vanishing point.

Those steps take you nowhere.

Once you leave the stars behind you beg the shadows to claim you.

And they live here. Under carpets etched with gold,

and tinkling fixtures fashioned of frozen constellations, they do exist.

Go west and forget these creatures.

West lies a door and a mirror, the latter appearing to slither

and bend in upon itself as you peer in, distorted.

Behind you, the party plays out and each guest is a dancer,

a puppet, bobbing to and fro,

not caring if their tipping point is reached

because they know the walls will catch them.

These walls, these glorious, innocent walls that have beared witness

to more than they ever intended.

The whispers might never hope to escape

and become echoes with them standing guard.

These titans, monolithic sheets of paper, really, sag and struggle

to form the shape of this present, everlasting.

It's in my head.

Five years ago or so I remember this dream. But I just remembered it yesterday.

Is this deja vu?

You pass a sign and put on your sunglasses and turn to look at a face you didn't know before

but now do well enough to know that it was the same person in the dream.

Trepidation's been swirling around in the air caught with shame, but you're having fun

even though you know a year from now you'll regard it as you did before.

Dirty. Stupid. Wrong.

Does it matter? It's not right or evil or wrong or good. It just is. It's there, busy being, while you're busy assigning it a meaning. And that's my problem. You leave and stay gone so repetitively but then you come back in and rearrange me to your liking.

And I never fight it.

I'm going to blink my eyes and you'll be back on your shelf

in the back of my mind where you really belong.

I don't live to see you smile anymore.

I'm not holding on to your way of life hoping you'll put me in your pocket.

I'm your fall back? You're nothing. I don't know you.

Sometimes it's just the comfort of being close even if it's alone.

You know? It's, um...you know a person and they know you

and it's existing together. At the same time.

That's all it is.

I quite like these days, actually.

I always use the same words on them, in the same order.

And they don't happen often.

But when they do there is a quiet certainty with which I walk.

I know I won't have to look into anyone's eyes or toggle which hand I gesture with

nor rearrange my body to best suit the situation.

Today it is simply yes and no, closed, wrapped up, divine and simple.

Do you think we'd still talk? Like, really?

All out unbarred eyes open hearts aching lungs flimsily keeping up with the pace of our words under the sky on top of a car under a blanket hair splayed legs tensed the taste of an unspoken trust that's going to tie you to one another for all time a kind you will feel when you're old and broken and you've forgotten each others faces but not the feel of hands holding on the the other and it's the only thing keeping you from falling apart right now with a wall of words and colors to unleash upon the world but no way to do so and it hurts and you'd rather go swimming in the tunnel of a wave where the closest they could get was the beach but you could take him with you if you wanted because he does and would and it's time to go and it's gonna be another month or five but waiting is easy when you know it's real but then you're caught eating your cereal in your pj's and a mess and you know it's not anymore.

How? All that happened.

Just went away. Don't go to bed angry, just forget about it.

Drizzle, drop.

Honeysweet heavy.

Flesh to skin, rewind.

Bile back in throat.

Lunge and mesh,

Hot, thick. Tear, kill.

Enter: silk, end with sweat.

Run. Down with plunge,

veins alive, quick noise: Stop.

Whisper wind, muffled mouth.

Unleash. beating; release, heal.

Repeat til sore.

This time yesterday, on the other side of the clock,

it was strange.

The moon was supposed to be awake,

but the crickets were yelling and throwing things.

When you ride or run down this avenue, shadows follow.

I always said to bring matches.

The seconds tick and the moon bids you hello

at the proper time for once.

But the crickets won't stop and you fear them to jump in your ears and overtake your brain.

So stepping down the sidewalk becomes delicate business, and no one's watching,

in case you fall and break the road.

Still, at this hour, you will risk the abyss

opening under you; and you tiptoe faster.

She's a crescent now, but graciously still gifting light.

She gives so much.

The insects now ride on my shoes and my shoulders.

They're afraid too.

The dirt road throws pebbles at my head,

and ducking makes running difficult.

It's dark, and it's late,

and now the crickets have been replaced by moths, the useless things.

All flutter, no flight.

I always leave a little bit of coffee in the bottom of the cup.

'Cause it's like a cliffhanger.

Maybe I'll have another cup

but probably not, because I don't like coffee very much.

But I'd hate to tell the coffee that, and surely it'd be a lonely cup if I drank it all down.

This way it has hope, even if it is a false hope.

This way it gets let down softly. Coffee takes awhile to get cold.

And by then everyone's forgotten about it anyway, and it'll just be lost in the corner of a diner after 2 AM on a Thursday night and sit.

and sit.

and sit.

It'l grow accustomed to the pattern of cracks on the wall

and the awful orange of the sticky counters,

and then the real shame will be when it finally is found.

Tossed away under banana peels and unfinished pieces of pie.

But it doesn't mind,

Even if it does wish it belonged to someone with a life more eventful + exciting.

It was a faithful cup of coffee, and its purpose was served.

You're an old windsong, that's where I know you from!

Repeatedly I have beckoned them to come, to grow,

but flightless here I am.

Now it's a trade. My feet for your familiarity.

It's a chasing game, life is, on the ground.

I've yet to come close enough to put a bell around your neck or offer you solace.

Still, it's the melody in a morning voice and

the whisper of fingers feeling out a hello on my shoulders

where you burn the brightest.

You're...oddly dim in person.

But you wear your face so well, I don't mind.

If I ever tire of you, I'll pop onto the porch

and see playing in the trees

and feel you in my hair

and you'll be renewed.

Try and find some comfort while you rest in me.

Paper, polly. Rough. Ingrained.

It's the stuff you could feel under your nails.

Remove it, you remove yourself, your truths.

Don't dilute us. Secrets are people too.

Really we're a nonchalant string of words,

something like a shock from a knife in a socket.

You knew we were there, just not on our sleeping schedule.

You could've asked.

No move, no plan left unposed.

It''s back to the papers now. Back to the comfortably unfamiliar.

Sense naivety in my movements. Unsure but curious, certainly.

It's been a long day and perhaps it's time to do the laundry &

leave the world well enough alone.

It's tired too.

It's a fitting color, if I do say so myself. Which I am, because you're not asking.
And yes, I had a great day.
No, of course I'm not telling you the truth.
Sure, you could call it my fault. After all, I didn't say anything.
Neither did you.

Yes it is childish. Yes, it was wonderful.
No, I don't particularly care.
I should stop lying to you?
You first!

This is exactly why I only talk to myself.
No questions asked, no answers needed.
When you blend into the wallpaper,
Everything falls into place.
Neat little pieces my fingers can handle.
Don't have to worry about those cuts anymore. No, no.
All done.

It's that black. That endless, smothering, velvet night that weighs me down. If I were to reach out my hand to you, feet away, I feel as though I'd shatter some sacred pact between me and the world. I'd be ripping a hole the size of the universe in this delicate web between us. Between every pair like us. and they didn't ask for that. It wouldn't be fair. Yes, I've completely disregarded what I think you'd have to say about it,
but I'm usually wrong anyways.

I'm walking now, and it's starry curtains rolling all around, and the strength my broken arms are asking for to push through them is tempting me to turn around.

As it turns out though, I didn't.

Don't wonder. There's just more black over here.
Peaceful. Whole. Unyielding.