It Might Be Mania, But It's All Mine

My skin burns where you last touched it. Pessimism weighs heavily on us like the clouds growing darker outside. We all close doors to tell secrets we want everyone to know.

My jealousy turns to rage turns back to jealousy again. I refuse to live like this but don't know any other way to survive. I concoct plans, solutions and serums but you don't answer my pleads, instead you change the subject. Chills course my skin, caffeine unsoothes anything formerly sootheable.

Wasn't it nice when I just sweltered in your sheets? When everything was fresh, fraiche even?

Now I scribble fervently, I shake and want to scream but I am intent on listening, hoping, wishing to hear your footsteps, for the door to turn, but no I am left with my mania.

This mania, these words, the most extreme interpretation of tiny drops of emotion find an outlet for the screams, albeit silently. This outlet finds a truth for the serum, a real problem for the solution and those bated breaths continue to breathe life into a reckless romantic life form that thought it couldn't survive.

And there go those footsteps.............

Make it the Way it Was

Is it fun? is it right? is it worth it?
You make me crazy, ecstatic and utterly confused.
I am driven to the edge.

I have lost patience in trusting but I want for yours.

I secretly conspire against you by holding you close and looking over your shoulder.

The world has stopped outside, a fire truck blinks but I can't hear the effects.

It was fun. It was wrong. It still is worth it when there's a glimpse of what was between bouts of jealousy.

I want answers. I want evidence. I want out.
I want attention. I want to trust you. I want to start again.

Make it the way it was. Stop hiding the back burner and grey areas.
Maybe it can never be much more than this and maybe you already figured that out.

I love the way it is in the morning. I love the way it is in the afternoon when you're tired and we're quiet.
Make it that way again.

Let the evidence be a reason for me to trust again.
Let me not need the proof, let the gun be cold and smokeless.

Let me only second guess where the next kiss will land.

Let me make it the may it was, the way you think it is.

Nauseous Nostalgia

Today I'm homesick. I long for melodies to songs I thought I forgot, I yearn for the pride that can only be felt for low green hills that meet white sand beaches. I long to dance in the dark and run towards hidden horizons. Long drives that act as lullabies and end at tall feather beds with pillows that are always mysteriously cool to the touch, call to me softly. The air conditioning in my new apartment doesn't make the familiar sounds of a slow creek meandering outside a faraway window, it creeks in other ways that startle me awake and leave me breathless and unnerved. I wish for the warm sticky hands of a child to latch about my leg as they exude squeals of pure delight. I miss my huge gossipy extended family I took for granted as I hid in their midst. Now what feels like a million miles stretches further between us and empty holidays end in empty phone calls. I list and loft above stress levels, I makeshift a family between lovers and find it lonely and fairly unrewarding compared to forced holiday meals and the smells of homemade pasta sauce. Home is but a feeling? No. Home most certainly is a place that holds my heart and sometimes my mind.

Not the Art Lesson I was Looking For

Does it look like the wind has whipped through my eyes? Because I feel completely hallow and yet drowning simultaneously. A long needle meant for draining lungs must have pierced my heart and I feel sick. Sick at myself for only trying to please you while everyone hushes and whispers about appeasing you. Their thought process more self centered, more on par with running from your wrath, escaping your scorn and basking only in the sunshine of your praise. I easily bore the brunt of all the wrong over the last week, I have talked you off ledges and yet not into bed, I feel pushed away while you row towards brighter, healthier shores. The pit in my stomach turns black and my face snarls to match it. It's the last thing I want to say but, my little heart breaks and I seethe with jealousy. If you come back in here I promise not to say things that will make you run away, I promise to act perky when in fact I feel so tired, tired of being the miser of my feelings and tired of over thinking my own thoughts. But you don't come back, you leave in an all too important rush, and again I find the words "my poor broken little heart" repeating repetitiously through my over thought thoughts. Did we draw the line already? Or is it that you're under the weather again? What I wouldn't give to go back to a time when I didn't feel, back to a time before these emotions took hold of my meager hand and pulled me down towards these incongruent depths. As if that time ever existed, as if I haven't always wanted you to hold me tightly and kiss me hard from the moment I set eyes on you. And so here I sit alone again dizzy from spinning my wheels and hoping that you'll hold me once more, hoping I'll find the congruence in all the incongruency, hoping that your nonresponsiveness speaks only to your status quo and not that deathly line we think we ought to draw, at this point I think we've gone far beyond doodling.

Pondering on a Horizontal Heat Wave

Steam rises from my hot skin as I try to sleep in your bed,
the fan whips wind around the room and I feel lonely.

Why is it so hot in here?
Why can't I sleep while you slumber soundly beside me?
These questions leave me listless as I try to melt into your bed like a pile of ice cream, sweet treats infusing the sidewalk with the colors of velvety mint and milky chocolates.

Dreams elude me and I toss and turn into you hoping to steal some of your sleep for myself, no such luck.
I spread and kick the sheets and wonder about the temperature outside, the fan has started to cool my skin but my mind counts on at a feverish pace.

If I fall asleep that will mean our secret embraceable weekend is over and I'll wake to the real world, I'll ponder your weekend in public but know that the privacy we found was nothing less than glory.

So I tick on, maybe the time change has left it's trail on my internal clock, my finger taps the side of the mattress, suddenly you awake breathless and detail the dream you were having while grabbing my hand.
I smile as you settle back into what might be left of your dream, I think you also smile but in the dark I can't be certain.
My legs restless yet exhausted from dancing in the afternoon.
Reaching for stars that had yet to appear and grinning wildly wide from the familiar feelings of confining shoes and abandoned movements.

I start to choreograph here under your silky comforter and slowly my mind wanders toward the much anticipated goal of sleep.
Like a downy feather floating slowly from the sky, each breath, each imagined pirourette, the feather falls a little further until finally finding rest, my eyes close and I dance right into wind whipped dreams.