I already miss the feeling of your calloused fingers
                                            and the hollow of collarbones.
Sundays and us, considering Vonnegut in monotone,
                                               or the sensuality of earlobes.

    Alternating episodes of depression and drowsiness
                                      marked by half-empty coffee cups.
 All limbs and guitar strings, Grey Reverend hauntings
                                      and the softness of every tiny paw.

      I told you that I would try and not  fall asleep again
                                                    but I couldn't even do that.
         I could only keep my eyes open just long enough
                                             to watch as you shut the door.

I like that you are translucent
and, in the cold, your body becomes
a field with rows upon rows of 
forget-me-nots and blue bonnets,
with daisy eyes that fold neatly over
beds of lavender, and stretch marks
of cherry blossoms on your thighs.

The accidental allegory in the unfolding of arms,
the conscious unbuttoning of your shirt,
and the unbuckling of your belt.

In the dark,
I can't see things
come undone.

The only thing that I want
to do is sit by as your chest
moves up and down 
to the sound of static;
and when the absence of words
leaves only murmurs and stuttering,
maybe the best thing to do
is watch calloused fingers make
wrinkles of skin and let
the gulls do all the talking.

If there isn't a name for the feeling 
that ripples through your body 
when you walk  through libraries,
then there should be.

(And it's not Plantar Fasciitus.)

Because every time I find myself  
walking through these spaces it would 
seem that my words hang suspended
like string of lights, but my hearts beats as
furiously as it did when our timelines accidentally
criss-crossed for the first time.
And the second.
And the third.

And I don't know whether the blame is with the books
or with my breath when I grow light-headed and distanced,
turning the pages of stories I will never read and reminded 
that I can not read it all,
and I can not know it all,
I'm not even smart at all.

And it was outside of a library where 
we sipped beer under the night sky and
you sheepishly admitted that you were 
always the slowest reader in your class
but you could handle Foucault just fine.
And I couldn't think of a reply so the only
thing to do was just sigh when all I really
wanted to do was just kiss you.

And it was in a library where
I would feel most at home - each whisper amplified,
reverberating through the knots in my spine and I could
kill time with characters so twisted and insane that even
the most mundane plot could consume my thoughts
for just a brief moment, and I could forget about the
time spent outside of libraries, sipping beer under the night sky,
where I do everything wrong and you'd do everything right.


Sometimes, I'm transported back to 
the muffled romantics of those old cities and hotel rooms 
where we'd confess thoughts in rolling black-outs by candle,
and compare faults and flaws until we only saw each other 
as bits and pieces of stories haphazardly thrown together by time.
But books seem to get better with time, and I'd rather have
the character of dog-eared pages with your criticisms
scrawled into my margins  than be stuck on the top shelf
and never have been opened at all.
 

I am stuck inside my head,
creating worlds with glass aviaries
and skyscrapers of cilantro.
Infinite repeats of pumpkin's fancy,
scenarios in which I am not a 
a clumsy lover.

With itchy fingers,
outlines get traced into ether
with all the pearlescent milkiness
of wet marble, heavy in metaphors
that suggest they are not filled
with nothing.

Mint flaws and chain reactions
and all the bitter musings
that exist somewhere between
eyelashes and cheekbones
still result in the smallest gift
to give.

I will not go gently,
such that I  can not feel
shivers and swelling,
but I can promise that
I will bite my tongue
and fold my hands.