until.there are things that i loveMore Like This
and things I do not
you are a thing that I will love
you will ALWAYS be a thing that I love
until you are not.
i won't quit there's not much to taste when years of nicotineMore Like This
sit heavy on your tongue, stale like week-old bread
and vintage cheese, but you won't quit.
no, you won't quit.
because once upon a time all you tried to live for was
your next cigarette, and every cigarette you lived
for was a battle won.
no, you won't quit.
because once upon a time you swore
you could taste her still with each inhale and every
cigarette broke your heart, but filled it too.
no, you won't quit,
you won't quit.
Date a girl who drawsDate a girl who draws.More Like This
You know the one. Her bag will be filled with discarded pencils and pens, scraps of paper with mindless doodles on them and blank books sticking out of her bag. She's the one who spends an hour trying to find the perfect sketchbook, only to pick up three more because she just couldn't help herself. She's the one hunched over in the coffee shop, rain or shine, the gears in her mind turning and turning while her hands move to catch up with every idea she has. She's the one who's too focused on what she's doing that her coffee's gotten cold and the people around her peek over her shoulder but she doesn't realise.
Compliment her drawings.
Ask to see more.
Turn the pages carefully, gently. Look at how hard she pressed the pencil into the page, the failed drawings, the successful ones. Look at the careful lines, the messy ones, the ones that give the drawings life. Linger on the pages you like but don't touch the drawings. Look at them carefully. Remember them.
pinocchio in love.i. a metronome, a bird's crow, ecstatic, pistoning electrodesMore Like This
and warm chromosomes,
all loving so sweetly the underneath
of your feet, world-worn and tired,
but i can make time only go so fast; at the drop of a hat
(or a flask), you are gone, and i ramble on and
on, but oh, you go
a clock winding down so slow, fingertips tapping at the close. a burn that hums so low
under my glowing skin, i begin
to fold madly in on myself, circumvent
backwards hat and waterlogged,
boots strapped to the bottom of the swamp, so long, so long,
stomach and muscles tied in loose sailor's knots
ii. "dear pinocchio, bring me the sunrise in a teacup
a bowl-full of your sweet love,
overflowing at the cusp;
and i am undone
every time i catch a glimpse
of your wooden knees, quivering,
nose reaching out to me:
a white lie to pass the time,
a nursery rhyme,
at last full up
on your plate of sunshine."
iii. last night i drowned my sorrows
in a flag