April 24, 2006


If I hear the word again these welling tears will overflow. Intimacy, we discuss, we digress, I wish for the intimacy, the sweltering intimacy but so much more than that, the deepness that is more than an flippant eye connection, whether it be on the subway, through a window or in the darkest moments before sleep in which eyes meet. Is it the communication? The talking, does it have to occur? And is it worth it? To be intimate enough to call it intimate, in a sense that is beyond the sweltering? Beyond the blankets? I find it hard, it is my struggle and as they say the word introvert I identify, I relate and find myself writing while they talk and laugh. Introvert, but I feel being within my vert, my reality, my world, my vortex is worth it, is different and selective. And so I continue to question intimacy; to get is to give and I find myself holding so tightly on to secrets waiting for the moment that I may let them out like a babbling, bubbling brook and yet I foresee no rain, no precipitation that will start this flow. Left to anonymity? Or waiting on intimacy?

April 17, 2006


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I want to press my hand up against windows
To keep you there
To keep your stare
I want to press my hand up against windows
To make you stay
To hold your gaze
I want to press my hand up against windows
So we can see
So we may smile
I want to press my hand against windows
For you to see my scars
So you can see my soul
I want to press my hand against windows
On the train, the bus
And in the car
I want to press my hand against windows
And watch the earth turn
And revolve around the sun
I want to press my hand against windows
Late at night
So you cant see me take you in
I want to press my hand against windows
so that we may be joined through glass;
The sands of time that have been made clear through heating and reheating
I want to press my hand, my palm, against windows
to feel everything
I’m trying to shut out
I want to press my hand against windows
As tears stream my cheeks
And drip from my stoic chin
I want to press my hand up against windows
so that I can continue the figment of a movie
I live inside my head.

April 10, 2006

fleet week

Everything is so fleeting. I find myself lying here clinging to what remains of my spring break. Clinging to the minutes as I watch my last hour of solace, of freedom wipe away in the indigo of his clock. Lying here in and out of dreams. I had woken up every hour throughout last night to make sure I didn’t miss my teeth cleaning in the morning as if my sub-conscience felt his alarm would not function the one day I needed it. I made it to the appointment and had to wait over half an hour and has the women raped my gums all I could think of was getting back into the warm boyness that is his bed for one more hour of my vacation. As my final hour came to a close I lied in his bed listening to his heavy breathing thinking how much I wanted to stay and keep hiding there in the sweltering heat that I had grown so accustomed to during my vacation. Spending days and nights wrapped in blankets, in arms hiding from the world, hiding form school and papers that needed to be written. My life had been put on hold more almost a week and a half and there I was holding onto minutes and seconds as they ticked by in ultra-blue. My countdown until summer reads 42 days and yet I still feel as if the semester never started. Everything is so fleeting, childhood, love, life and here I am holding onto to minutes, tears and hands.