1/29

Some people are too weak to leave.

I'm too weak to stay.

It's right, surely. I can't stay, trapped, in four walls, with a woman that loves, only the reflection of herself coming from my eyes. And I love you, and you know I love you, but love isn't enough today. Nor will it be enough tomorrow or the next day. You're making and building your life and I'm going to build mine. Without you.

I have this problem, when I love someone, the feeling doesn't go away. I feel like it never really does for me. I give everything I can and everything I know and everything I feel and then, after, I'm left with everything you know too. 

How do you unlearn how to love?

This summer has been one to write about. With everything that happens to me, and everything I feel, and everyone that comes, dines, and leaves, I learn one thing, no amount of love is great enough. If it's doomed, it will fall apart. It will eat you alive. You will cry. You will hurt.

But with this, you will grow.

I think I'm writing this as my own closure. I haven't cried, yet. I also don't think I'm going to. 

It's just fucking insane! Fucking insane and I hate every minute of it. 

I've let go of everything I've ever loved. (I do not regret any of these) 

I've let go of the first woman who brought me up to break me down.

I've let go of the woman who taught me how to go Downtown and all around. She was also the first and the last one. I consider her the only one.

I've let go my small passions and past times, I've let go of my dreams and goals.

I still have myself. And truly, that's al we're ever left with.

My mother has told me that since my first day of middle school, and I never payed it much mind. I always thought she hated me and shit, but she was/is right.

We are born alone. We die alone. Anything in between is just a pastime. Breathing is just a pastime.

I'll never tell you I don't care, and I'll never tell you that I don't love you, but I won't name you. This is the last time I will ever speak of you. 

I just wish we had met in another life. Where it was only you and I, our love and our bodies.

I will love you until my heart gives out. That's all I can give you.

Goodbye

Don't Say A Word

You’re everywhere and nowhere and this flicker of something that

I believe, so wholeheartedly, that I can grasp at. I’ll shut my eyes, 

just for a moment, and I can almost imagine the sweet touch of

your lips against the curve of my neck. Hush, you. Hush your

words. Hold me so I know how it feels to be the only one that can 

make you feel like the sea isn’t closing in on you anymore. Hush,

for one moment, so I can light the darkness that trails like phantoms around your ankles. Hush,

because I can almost hear the words that you’re longing to say, but I’d rather you whispered them into my sleeping ear so that the

creases of my pillows will hold you in the moments where I miss you the most. Nights lately have been rather lonely, so I’ll just

 listen to the songs that you’ve played out for me in my name and I’ll pretend that these eight pillows that I keep wrapped around

 me can make up for the warmth that I wish I could mold into a you, a boy with fox eyes and rivers in his blood. Hush, so I can

 believe that you’re more than a figment of my overactive imagination. Hush, so I can press the stories of our palms together, trace 

the roads of your veins against my own, feel the walls around both of us crumbling. You’ve weakened me, rendered me helpless.

Vulnerable and childish. My breath is waxing and waning but I know that I can melt into you ever so dearly. Don’t say a word. I,

 know what you’re feeling. I know you, I do. I know that my breath is the evenness and steadiness of yours, and I know that we

 both crossed our fingers that night once upon a dream. You’ve branded yourself into my skin, into the fragile bones of my chest.

You’ve sewn your heartstrings between my collarbones, wrapped your limbs around my own until we’ve become nothing but each other. 

I am you and you are me and we are we. Us. Everything and nothing and something extraordinary. 

Years, ago

You were flipping through old notebooks and found an entry that made you pause:

Is it possible to feel claustrophobic in ones own skin. Or is this me loosing control. 

You didn’t pause because of what I had once written. But rather because it contrasted to what I wrote you now:

And the reason I hold you so close, the reason I try to bury myself inside you, the reason I wish you could just absorb me, is because I feel more comfortable in your skin than I ever did in my own. 

Devour me. 

Please, Please

I wrote a poem once

so beautiful, it reminded me of you

and of the way you stood in that photograph

under the oak tree, that early fall when we fell in love

I don't have that photograph anymore

the poem either

I just couldn't bear to have people I don't know read it

I couldn't let them see you, the way I got to see you

So i burned it

just how you burned everything, just how you burned me,

away.

I've got these feelings that bled into my knuckled every time I bit into them

without words to say that I could fit in the space between your lips like a kiss or something

you've stolen a thousand times before

you've left these fucking patters on the gravel so that'd id never forget even when i wanted to

but i just don't know how to speak in chords, how to make my voice match the deep red wine

and the burning corners of stars like yours

letting you rediscover the truth on the tip of her eyes is the most difficult.. 

but look at your smile; look at mine

shadows here, thunderstorms there 

STEEL KNIFE / MY WINDPIPE

And you feel really fucking alone and no one loves you and hope is only a four letter word, and you hate that number and you hate her and she hates you, and nothing matter's and everything is nothing and nothing is 

everything and, and..

LONG LIVE BUK

Happy Birthday to one of my favorite writers Henry Charles Bukowski.
Even 18 years after his death he is still considered one of the best.
Recognition is the only type of fame he ever wanted, but he left with so much more.
This post by all means will not do his 73 years of life justice, but recognition is needed nonetheless.
LONG LIVE BUK

Ghost

I'm really glad I have you to come home to