nospoonwriter

I’ve clearly got a wait problem. It is winter and I miss you. Wait. Spring is just a few months away. Wait. We’ve got Christmas to think about; another year alone. Wait. There are some things that I’ve taken for granted. Wait. I miss you every day. The warren is a wreck. Barren as I am without you. Wait . . .

I could write the same thing over again until I’m full of clichés. Blue in the face, seeing red, green with envy at the fingertips and temples you’ve blessed with words, motivation, and forward moving ideas. I could write the same thing over again because that is all that you left me with—caution. Maybe some things are better left unsaid.

“A Flamboyance.” A broken clock is right twice a day and maybe I was wrong about you. If it walks like a duck and quacks like a duck it could just be pretending. There are more bread crumbs than rabbit holes. I’m still trying to make sense of this flightless feeling; a loss of potential. Maybe I should have been myself.

“Last Love Poem for M” And just like that I realized that you were not the disease, just the symptom. There are some things you just can’t fix. Some bells you can’t un-ring. And yet here we are, mallet in hand. Sometimes I think of you. Existing. Still waiting to be struck in reverse. Sometimes I want that too.

I could write a poem about your lips. Not just about the want to kiss them,  but about the desire to have the perimeters of ourselves dissolve and become one. I could write a poem about the fushion of us; I start with the flesh of your lip-- from my teeth, a gentle pull and as I'm just on the lip of hooking you, I poet prolifically. I let our lips speak for themselves, I let our eyes do the same, and I make martyrs of ink pens; ink is spilled in the tracing of your lips and the making of maps, from your lips to mine, we may end up lost at sea but oh, the poems I shall write for you; if you want, I can write you 206 poems, one for eac

Call me Pinocchio and I'll let you pull my strings. But if you have it that way, nothing between us is real.

can we just begin with the fact of how alone you are and from there we can explore your downward spiral into self loathing, your dreams were whet from hours in front of tv screens and you think to yourself that maybe you won't add up & so you try to become someone who is more like you yourself and less like the version of you that was filtered through screens. your worst self falls through hour glasses, attempt to tell time with the setting of the sun and the feeling of waking up naturally, everyday that passes you become more of who you are and yet there is a part of you that worries that sooner or later it will be too late.

 this is a sandbox, a bed of glass with no heat. The parts we play we hardly mean, it's the imagination of it all,kisses revoked, dreams drowned, we sober,repeat,  pack away created characters and make attempts at being real.

take my love handles; the way you graze my sides, run trails down stretch marks, follow hills and curves--your favorite was my smile, full stretched lazy grin ready to meet your lips

I.There Is No  U How can I explain the complexities of cities and stars alike, lights and bridges, the points of no looping back-- this is the compilation of dreams: silver strings splayed like tinsel on christmas trees. II. At First I'm still looking for ways to describe a set of lips that don't belong to me. Perfect bow, meaty while not too thick, my own failed at "hellos," they once had elegant dreams of passing pleasantries. III. Threshold of Intimacy Every time I sleepover, we play parents, I smoke in bed, while some lazy fingers switch tv channels, flip book pages, trace from face to chest, sigh songs from forgotten radio st