PureVolume

Love Letters From Me To You.

KNIT TRINKETS

i'm full.
from head to underbelly
with everything i've said
and said and thrice repeated.
fated to reword the
feelings i've memorized
through my fingertips.
Inevitable reslessness
overcoming my joints
unable to blink away
the eventual silence
of my hands.

it gives me chills and fevers
beyond the use of
sweat to rid my throat
of contagious sickness.
tricked
tired
and overused phrases
making dances over
plain white pages
i am spent.
collapsing on keyboard
beds and covering with
pen caps and pencil shavings.

capped by gloves to conserve
the failing circulation of
my arteries, i am expelling
all these wordless feelings
for you from summer organs.
---

Raggedy Andy

Please, snip the delicate puppet strings
that hold your drooping wrists
and bob your pretty head

No one believes such innocence anymore
of a pale boy who cries at night
into the static of late phones
and begs girls to sleep in the
couch with them
digging up change and
stuffing dignity into
the cushions.
keeping younger years
warm with marionette
handshakes and half-moon
smiles.
"i'll keep you safe"
as you bend a wooden elbow
to lean your arms around
fabric shoulders of new friends.
pressing your painted
lips and rosey cheeks
onto her freckles.
everyone knows dolls
should be cherishable
but you just lie around
taking up space, collecting
thick dust in your eyelashes
and aren't a good toy for
neither girl nor boy.
---

Stolen Sheets

come stay with me, if just for a week
a ticket from here to california
costs less than it does to miss you this much
as we use hand-me-down camcorders
to make home movies that document
your body's every microscopic movement.

our faces were illuminated by the drum light
in small rooms not meant to hold so many hands
but we press our bodies between the walls to
feel at home.

i must've looked too serious
because you forgot to let your
hair dance with your shoulders
and unhinge your jaw with laughter.

but i wear a smile like a sunday dress
crisp and awkward
on occasion
attempting to look my best
which is the only objective
i have when it comes to
being under your supervision.

we cutely whispered air by the coblestone
"please, come stay in my dreams.
you can sleep in my bed and steal
all my covers, you already have
my heart."

we can blame it on being young
and feeling something like love
so say it, please
and say it slow
say you'll stay
we can celebrate the fouth of july
drive all night
i'll never ask again
if you agree this once.

we can make the burnt sky our stage
and exchange the day for night
breathing in downtown air
and city streets
you'll never lose three hours
of the dark again if you
follow the clock to my
stateline.
i just need to find peace
next to your breathing.
---

The Delicate Nature of Friendship and Sand

i was unaware of your romantic curves
and the muscle-bound gradient of
your shadows in black and white.

soaked in the evening air
and june water, memories
were spead delicately over
sand castles and candid
camera moments.

making love to the sky was
never so second nature than
when i found myself close
to your casual lungs.

you were an angry secret
uncovered and brooding
in the silence of unmade
decisions.
your skills are getting
better when it comes to
keeping yourself away
for everything that
burns your fingernails.
this doesn't stop your hands from learning the motions
of chain smoking and writing stories about fictional
friends, but i have memorized the textbook philosophy
in your layers.
facing consequences and never making excuses
for the explosive nature of youth when it
makes mistress of freedom.
we laid out all our vulnerability
on a makeshift beach
holding our breath in
the dirty lake
and hoping for the best
that perhaps some one
else enjoyed sleeping
under the stars and
the breath on your neck.
---

All new material. If I offended you, I'm not sorry. If I made you happy, then it is my pleasure. And if you don't like it, you don't have to because there are plenty of people who do. Sorry, I'm being proud of myself for once.

affectionately,
dearest.

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if you're wondering whats wrong,
which you're probably not.

its just that whenever i see your picture
its hard to choke down the dissapointment
of wanting something you are very aware
you'll never have.

thats all.

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Poetry on Art

i am composed with blocks of color
uneven boundaries &
strong contrasts.

so put these shades
to rest and lay me
softly on a bed.

tonight i will sleep in
charcoal and arcrylic
and you will keep your
pencil outlines
with no detail
to fill in those
eyes.

your mouth simply an
overextended, exaggerated
line that crept onto the
reaches of mine.
we made art.
with paintbrush fingers
and overcast shoulders.

contained in the threads
of an oversize canvas,
you kissed my forehead
and spoke to me of
modern times.
---
this story is fictional.

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Poems x3

foreign shores don't have time
to fall in love with the dirty south.

what a way to be foolish
with your impracticality
You're false
You're just a redhead
anyone can buy for $3.99 (plus tax)
In disguise,
child what are you hiding from.
Pull the hair from your eyes
& smile sweeter for me.

It's been so long since some one
sang you to sleep and told you
everything would be okay.
the Dandelions will listen to your
secrets tonight as you fall
asleep burying your face in the
pillowcase to hide from the morning.
child its been too long since you
felt the breeze and started to believe
in all the words he let you borrow.

[you are so beautiful.
you are so beautiful.]
but when have you seen me without
the costume of colors. wait. then
say it slow and real.

the tide loses three hours each night
to the stars while the rest of us dream
of holding hands in july.
---

summer was an awful creature that waited stagnant in the
afternoon grass.
and kept us sweating in our sheets
as we generated our own heat.
the sun came bright each AM hour.
we stirred softly to the piano songs
coming from my radio.
i still have the same dream.
where you lie there speaking of
all the things you know nothing about.
[you always liked to pretend]
i watched your eyes
your soft warm colors
writing verses
about the nights so calm and young
you were mine to keep for the week
on borrowed time when reality took
you back home
a cold house
a quiet room
& an empty bed
summer was a cruel muse
but she stayed civil through july
when we watched the stars
through our eyelids
& felt the world become infinite
---

father, your stature
is so small against
all that rages between
my fingers.
the limp body you hugged
a week ago turns to stone
in the denial you pushed me against.

the sadness that calls my bones home
is so much more inconvient than you
know.
but you blame it on mismatched hormones
and girlish ideals
grow up
grow up
grow up
but i am just a child
so much of a child
resting on the doorstep
of young adulthood
as the rain hits my forehead
and stings my eyes.
i am not ready.
so i beg to sleep here
for 3 more years.
father. i'm sorry this comes at a bad time for you
that i can't bear to crouch inside this silence
it was made for me
[You're not the only one
and you're not special.
You no longer stand in
a white light setting you
apart from the rest.]
You emotional child.
Grow up.

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More Writing. Of Course.

so either way
it tastes bitter.
trading moments of happiness
in the late hours of the evening
for a tightness in my throat
i can't release.

you spoke the words into my
eyes that i feared to apprehend.
and the dry grasp on my vocal
chords simply made it harder
to swallow the reality of the
daunting desire collecting
in my docile fingertips.

it weighs heavy on the winter atmosphere
as spring disagrees with the colder
air. in exchange for solemn glances
a storm raged against the blinded
windows. i had hardly the heart
to realize the jarring rain as i
obtained permission to build a content
fabrication of the honesty in your convictions.

but thank you for the comfort.
you've managed to mar my dissillusion
into something charming and compact.
it will do me far better good to walk
the tightrope gracefully now than try
to escape lovesick and bruised.

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