Your Fonder Heart

Do you think the moon dreams about me, too? Last night I dreamt we were fighting like we did when we were kids. Angry with one another, a feeling I remember, but a reason I do not. So angry - with the one I love. I'm sorry I was angry again.  I'm sorry I love you so much, it's easy to be angry with you. But mostly, I'm sorry that I bottled that up  years ago and can't express anger anymore. That sure would have come in handy a few times, eh? Imagine if, instead of being cross with you, I set boundaries - I confused anger and love for so long.

  What if, instead of blood and guts our bodies were filled with the warm wash of light of a summer evening; the slow warm glow beaming through our skin bones made of wind, organs quivering under the gentle sway of our blood vessels, swishing back and forth and back and forth the way your heart beats through your chest when you’re falling in love (not a pitter-patter but a rumble, a roar, a relapse of reality); but rather than falling in love with someone we’ve gone and sank our teeth into the pages of poetry. When the incandescent glow inspired by words lays bare the truth, and the secrets we hide behind fall way, how can we pretend our own mortality, the dousing of the light isn’t the most pressing matter at hand. Crushed, ground, atomized beneath the weight of all the poems we’ve yet to read. Adulation, plateau, cherry red cherry tree cherry pie, blue sea blue sky blue dogs blues music blue moods, diastema, diatribe, progress reports and progressive rapports, rapturous raptors, ...

 What if I told you that no matter how h a r d I try     if I can't be enough for myself What can I be for you

Let someone inspire you. Let them light a goddamn fire under your lazy goddamn ass. Let them kiss you in public where strangers might see you. Let them kiss you in your sleep. Let them kiss you in the crook of your hips you never let anyone see. Let them learn how you like your coffee. Let them hear your truest laugh. Let yourself be open to someone. It might hurt, but I can guarantee that your loneliness hurts more.

All the different ways I am learning to say No

Have sex behind a mausoleum. Bring your rosebud nipples to the hard, jagged, cold concrete of the walls containing the death and decay. Scream into the void. Be the opposite of cruel without being indifferent. Show passion, even if that passion is anger. Know where your anger comes from. Write someone a letter, detailing your most embarrassing memory. Burn the letter. Burn your ideas about love. Take a bullet for someone you don't know; someone loves them. Change your perspective. Take photos upside down. Buy a cheap bottle of [x] and an expensive bottle of [x] and pour them into matching cups then turn around ten times and see if you can actually tell the difference. Write across the lines on paper. Write nonsense, write poetry, whatever; just write. Start a revolution within yourself and see what happens. Eternity is taking far too long.

you were not my One Great Love you were so much more and you shattered me so throroughly that i don't think i could ever ever ever look at you the same way again

The aftermath  is eerily calm; There was so much build up for the storm b u i l d   u p for the s t o r m. A black hole has more content than this.

What good are all these truths Scattered across pages? Words are only whispers of the heart; We can't really convey what we want with words. They are, afterall, just words.

If I had to tell her how to protect her heart, I would tell her this: Cool Girls don't stick around long enough to get hurt. Cool Girls check the sports stats and have a cigarette when they are done. Cool Girls are aloof. Cool Girls are not Manic Pixie Dream Girls. A Cool Girl will tower over you, even if she is short. Her presence is discreetly known wherever she goes. A Cool Girl never has to ask for anything. A Cool Girl will make demands, and - boy howdy - those roars are hers to be heard.

There are trees, in some distant corner of the world that I'll never see, that grow sideways. The wind is so strong, so constant, so ceaselessly powerful, that the trees grow sideways. They don't look like normal trees, they don't grow like normal, trees, but they grow. They persist. That gives me hope for my heart, perhaps it will bend and not break, it will grow sideways, as these trees do, it could be malleable like I once thought my fate was, bending, not breaking.

I wear my heart on my sleeve. I keep my cards close to my chest. When it rains, it pours. Let the rain wash you clean. I'm a mover, not a shaker. I'll take that shaken, not stirred. I'll take that shaken, not stirred.

"You must play piano," the old hens cooed when you were young "Not a key, I swear" you insisted Those fingers aren't for making that kind of music though, are they darling They're to make me sing Not the usual sad cry of lonely whales, But a euphoric, interstellar kind of song.

Sometimes romance and all it's impracticalities feel like a better option than growing up and all it's practicalities. And sometimes you have to create that romance for yourself, and sometimes that is all the reality you need.

I can be as strong as I please, but it only takes effect theoritically. Physics works well with theory, why doesnt the physical?

What if it was all there, laid out in front of you,  But you were so busy wondering about if you  were noticed That you forgot to pay attention. What if it just needs to be asked The right questions, at the right time, instead of being defensive  and offended all the time. What if saying "Thank you for your patience" was bigger than saying "Sorry for being a jerk" What happens when You care more about 'this' than about 'that' Goodness, what if.

I knew I was a nomad from an alarmingly young age. By my eighth birthday, I could pack, clean, and unpack my bedroom in a single weekend, everything having it's own home. It was a great way to spend a summer. At fourteen, my mother saw fringes around my wispy frame and asked, "Child, have you been listening to my Dylan records again?". She tried to deny I was a gypsy when I confronted her as a preteen. My dirty hair, olive skin, green-grey eyes didn't help her convince me. A constant need for change of scenery, of conversation. It didn't take me long to realize how swiftly people became lackluster chores instead of consorts. Maturing into adulthood, I was suspicious of how likeable I seemed to be. Of course, it wasn't me people knew they liked. It was the caricature of myself that is perceived by the general public. That chain smoking alcoholic uncensored thing, somehow not offending anyone. Who wouldn't like someone like that!

Don't even dare You'll ruin it They will fall For your false identity Too in love to question Too naive to know better Total eclipse of the hair, Change nothing. The sugar bowl is empty, Run west. Run west. Run west. Run, Run, Run.

Slip into the dress Slide on the stocking Step into the heels Slap on the face A ghost In a lion mask

I regard you as a poet does a gun; Or a ghost a foggy night. Somewhere in the back; way, way back of my mind - Like unreturned phone calls  or blue-collar Catholic guilt  or the inability to lie to a child - Making coherent decisions will remain remote, uncharted waters. Kettledrummer.