your

your words are half the story. your stories are half the truth. i'm partial to half the story. i'm half of the partial truth. i fully believe your half. and partially hate your truth.

you're pretty sneaky. you use technology like a doggy door to my good graces. i don't give a fuck about little efforts when they're smashed by your overwhelming cowardice. you use logic to hide your crumbling confidence. anger to hide your disgust. now, were we talking about my indiscretions or yours?

your mustache makes you look like a sexual assailant/serial killer but you're frighteningly more sexy with it. i cant remember the last time you made me cry. i cant remember the last time i thought i couldn't live without you. but i remember the last time we drank beer at your job and tried to find articulated skeletons to buy online. and i remember the time i left your house for another boy. i remember missing you and not regretting it.

you. who the fuck are you. i don't know you or anything around you. i'm guessing neither does anybody else. even if you think they do, they don't. shit, i could be wrong. i don't know what the fuck you think you're saying but you say it pretty well. ha. laughs bouncing off strangers. stick to the basics we know. i'll say less when i know more.

you're the last person that made me make an ultimatum for myself. you're the last drunk i stuck up for for purely selfish reasons. you cast such a comforting and isolated shadow for us i often forget it's mostly the booze and boredom. you're the sweetest asshole i know and a terrible part time friend. i used to like your literal brutality and your cooking. i feel worse than valley trash. fuck, that's sad. 

Timeout. Let me just say trading real sleep for alcohol induced sleep weighs just as heavily in the morning if you spend it staying up late to write stupid shit about boys. Game on..

snuggling in a cold and empty room warmed by you and Whiskey. plans to move to Finland. sloppily narrated bedtime stories. voicemail full of songs about pirates and me being black. crying in front of me. several times. loving and fucking simultaneously. showing me your guns. singing me your songs. tiny fragments of tiny moments. 

tell me how wet i taste when your life's a fucking desert. i'll do the same. its easy to focus on the only warmth in the room. it's just as easy to block the only light blinding your eyes.

incomplete

i can feel the science of my body. the mechanics of cells. like an instrument set in motion, i feel the wheels turning. i am neither cold nor set aflame. i am not a tyrant or a cog. i have no destination just an immediate purpose. my goals are vapor and my drive is porous. my hands are clockwork. my eyes are amoebas. my hair is dust. all around me i seek a purpose i've yet to find. all around me i see a purpose i've yet to feel. i'm powering myself like my own puppetmaster. i feel absent. i'm only connected now by memories and obligations. my skin is microscopic tentacles reaching out into your pores; wanting to inch my way into every nerve, satisfying every part of your being. i am nobody's purpose. your body is faulty wiring and i can fix you with my tongue. sometimes i think you worship fear. who doesn't want to personally know every inch of their body like a mechanic knows a motor? i wanna seep through you like rain through the earths soil and leave my mark for all to see and feel. i understand you and you know thats one of the most beautiful things in the world because it makes you feel at home. people can love but to understand brings someone to a place in you thats only frequented by one other person, yourself. its like having a best friend in your head heart and soul. i'm your clean slate. i'm your demon. i'm antimatter. i'm your stone cold muse. i'm your etch-a-sketch; shake me too hard and you'll erase all that was every imprinted on me. i'm the wanting and the fear. and if you think i've sunk too low, i'll put the Mariana Trench to shame. i'm your sea serpent. i'm your rock n roll whore. i'm the closest your gonna get to tangible omnipotence. i'm as far as you're gonna get and i'm gone. just because something is real doesn't mean its true. i can feel the dust of your bones on my skin. i can feel the cold tile of your bathroom floor. i'm home. aren't you happy that i'm your frankenstein? i hope you got your secret decoder ring..

You.

My heart swells.
 Literally, I think.
 My heart beat is irregular and my breathing slightly disturbed. This is not your doing. You start to talk and everything in me listens. I'm calmed and missing. All melts away. I'm not tense or sad. Disappointed or in yearning for you. I already have you. Years could pass and you could pass through a million hands with every intention touching your heart mind body and soul and i'd still have you. You know it too. This is why I leave you smiling. This is why i feel euphoric as I drive away or hang up the phone.

 You leave me satisfied.

 This is not about ego, attraction or intelligence (although you do not fail in any of those aspects), nor is it about love or desire (even though you instill these feelings in me). I know its not these because at this moment your not here. This would not give you any power or added confidence because you don't need any. You get plenty of attention and praise from others close to you, you don't need mine (but you like mine because it sounds like your own voice). 

You might not read this and even if you do, you might not think its about you. My eyes start to water sometimes when I think of you. Just for a minute and then its passes. A little release because you give me something better than love:
 You make my world timeless.
 You make me eternal.
 You do this for no one else and you do it just by being. Its so simple like an idea or a candle. I expect nothing from you. I live my life from day to day and and I talk to you when I talk to you and I see you when i see you. Of course it would be nice if i could have these moments more frequently or whenever I chose to; but like all gifts, they can be used, abused, misunderstood and broken. They can rust if left untouched by misguided hands. They can be stolen lost or simply forgotten.
 I choose not to waste my little grain of Fantasia sand. I hold on to whats left with gentle hands, feeling it grow as we grow and enjoying every moment we have until we... well, we'll find out won't we?