like ten thousand balloons

Pull me in
I feel like I’m floating away
Pull me in
Pull me back
Kiss me
Hold my hand
I’m getting lost out here with out you
While you sleep in sweat next to me
I miss you most when we touch
It’s not enough to just be with you
Look at me
see me
Love me
While I struggle to love myself
Pull me in
I’m floating away on tears and fears
Pull me back
Before I’m too high, too far gone.

A Lonely September

I used to cry over you and even now as the tears well up I reminisce sleeping in your nook, your smell of cigarettes and soap. I miss you as I listen to bands to told me about, I miss you as I wake from dreams that your OCD rituals plagued, I miss you and I want to kiss you, in all your drunken gloriousness. I itch for those old kisses or any kisses for that matter. Chills run through my body as I think of love and lust and lacking all of it. A romantic, with no romance. I try to find substance and inspiration in this humid life, I try to find wonder and awe in this suburban life, there is nothing yet. Where is my city? Where are the wonderful lights of uncovered stars? Where are you sleeping these days? I long for your hot sheets in exchange for this humid life and our long drives down rocky coasts and dirt roads. Your long fingers holding my hand because at least someone would be holding it. I have let you become my lasting vice. I day dream of running away with you to continents and islands, day dreams that will stay just that, dreams, while I wait and write movies of our unfinished life.

“I didn't mean for this to go as far as it did
And I didn't mean to get so close and share what we did
And I didn't mean to fall in love, but I did
And you didn't mean to love me back, but I know you did”

This life or the next

I dream of him and airports and antiques. Glossy tables in old libraries upon high hills, steep hills that our dreamland go-carts could not traverse. Libraries with butlers that “shhhhh” your giggles, long stretched windows to view those wonders that could not fit within these walls. Ancient swords and jackalope heads hung on the walls; magically woven rugs run the length of each hall. A tiny airport out of Casablanca meant only for parting lovers. This dream is a welcome break for images of a new corporate life, video tapes of every size and shape, stacks and rows of them have plagued my dreams for the last two weeks which were in turn the first two weeks of the rest of my life. Regardless I always cherish dreams filled with old romance and wet kisses. While I ponder him daily I have had to put my obsession with the future, our future to rest, because now I am a world away and lie in other arms, wonderful arms. And so I can only dream and rest assured that our tortured souls are not yet finished with each other and we will meet again in this vessel or another to torture and obsess for another lifetime.

Watching Joseph Gordon Levitt movies and crying myself to sleep.

I miss being alone and cynical. I miss the city and trying my hardest to look hard so I wouldn’t get mugged/raped. I miss him when he’s right next to me and yet I fantasize about running away and never coming back. Things are falling into place; I’m growing up and its terrifyingly cool. The perfect job a million miles away from the perfect place. We settle. I miss the writing and crying alone in cold movie theaters. I miss the fog and almost rain of it. I miss the dance, the fall down, back arching, burn of the dance. Missing it all won’t bring it back but I think the reminiscing is enough for now. Cheers to life, love and the lack there of.

Once Love

Looking through the archives, by March he was gone. The one love that I learned the most from, well I can look back now and call it learning when in reality it was torture, for him and treacherous for me in the long run. Monday he called to wish me happy birthday, I cried when we got off the phone. The torture prevails changing sides as he has undoubtedly blocked me from getting to him. He is sweet but I think his words and drunken advances were nothing more then a ploy to get me into his bed, but of course always the romantic I’d like to think he was trying to touch my heart again. Driving down my favorite road for the last time a panic attack began and I started to feel ripped apart. I knew I had left him too drunk for him to call in the promised five minutes or at all for that matter. I feel splayed open, cut down the center like a frog in seventh grade science. Heart and soul exposed, heart rare and vulnerable for the taking. To be taken between thumb and forefinger and smashed to a muddy crimson mash.


And now to put all the love and hot sweat out of mind and return to my domestication and loneliness, maybe it’s not really the adventure I kept trying to describe.