Noted

I'm always afraid I can't stitch my words into a perfect piece. All the cobwebs in my head are pressing themselves into my mouth and my vomit is coming up like a choo-choo train and it tastes like salvaged lint from the dry cleaners. I'm trying to unhook myself from the world and focus on paperbacks and dandelions and noses, feel the waves with a couple of dolphins, and just shut my eyes as I embrace the flood, welcome the copper in between my electric fingers. Open my mouth to a gasp of lightning, nurture the pain in my ankles and in my calves with a bend of friction, treating a craving with a gluttonous retaliation, murmurs like ice in utterance but like coffee on a Sunday morning in the lungs. I tell myself I am meant to help myself through a protocol of wires and nutcases, but I can't hear anything over the radio, the inside of my mouth burning from blowing the wisps of taunting fire. I shall not make sense and I shall not touch the algorithm (because I don't want your stupid cure, or, well, your um stupid "theory") and a sliver of tongue and a shot of winter (in my bones, in my sentiments, on the warpath of my palms, living in my very core) is enough for me

and

I'm going to break and regress and scratch at my nubby toes (because they're freaking me out when I don't wear socks) and kiss somebody - you - before the ground opens up under me and takes me away (from you). I don't know if I'm doing love right but I hope my hugs don't suffocate you and my heart doesn't hurt yours. Maybe we can count our blessings and visit the CD store and pick some flowers where there aren't any signs, or people, yes, because that would be nice and  liberating and ticklish for me and I like the guitar in your laugh and the slope of your nose and the stories, the universe, in your eyes

(especially how they twinkle when they collide with mine,
and sometimes it hurts and I can't figure out why).

But I think it would be even more spectacular if we got to hold hands
like, maybe in the streets of Bologna or in your Dad's car
because my heart hums and my mouth hums and I think
your eyes shed more stars than ever when that happens

So it makes me happy because it's about to rain in the thunder and lightning kind of way (it's also like tambourines and drums and a whole orchestra... but with bazookas). We don't have anything but that coffee shop across the street where hands burn and silhouettes are misleading. And it's you and the nonsense you speak that like to make sense of my hollow hands because they don't shake like earthquakes anymore and I've occupied them with tattoos of what you say.

You say you like autumn but love summer and I can't wait to kiss winter for you. Your knees are beautiful and your legs are skinny, your shoulders fragile, cracking, but stable, sinew after sinew a heartbreaker, and the smell of your hair on the back of your neck drives me into the mattress and I'm bewildered but articulate in incoherence which you think is lovely so I don't protest. I can drink liquor from your expletives and skip from constellation to constellation with the astral roses on the canvas of your back and I can smoke colors of black and white without fetching a few cigarettes from under your bed. You taste like blueberry and bread crumbs and hot red toothpaste, Scrabble around your wrists and white glue in your hair, History your favorite subject. You sound like the harps you often listen to and whistling sailboats marking the sea and my whole entity is pooling around my heels, ferociously, unkindly,

and my heart is somewhere here;
it looks like a clump of feathers
but i carried it once
and it weighed like Atlas
carrying you and me--
us, the world; i can say
that we're nothing, but we
treat ourselves with
utmost importance
so maybe we weigh
more than we should, and
so I'm blaming you because

the hotel is crashing down into roasting ashes and it's because I've unlocked the cage of my heart and the prideful organ flew from my hands before it could remember it couldn't fly on its own

thus the malfunction
and destruction
of everything that used to be
just fine, and i
didn't mean this to happen
(i'm so sorry, m'dear)--
salty tears and lamentations too soft,
spread like butter on my fingers,
and this is sick, spoiled, in my throat,

savage and too hot for (your) coats and I'm sad and I wish my feet didn't hurt so bad from running from the nest of ashes to the hospital

where you lay
and I miss you and I will (and you'll hate me for
being cliche) miss you
(goddammit)
forevermore.

my love.