i've got this scab on my face. i don't know what it was before it was a scab. a mole, maybe. a beauty spot. depends which suburb you're in. whatever it was, something scratched it and turned it into a little knub of blood crowning a little knub of skin, right there on my cheek bone. i don't know how long it's been there or when i started doing this but i keep pulling it off. watching it bleed out and dry up again; locking its doors and barring its goddamn windows.

it's raining

those bats were crying so hard up in the trees that the sky joined in.

good mourning.

i'm not really much of anything right now. i have been having a lot of sex. a lot of something that alludes to sex. and i pretty much just occupy myself with sex-related activities in between all the sex i'm having. i make my text messages as dirty as possible. i dish out heavy double entendres.

there is a lot of sex, is what i'm saying.

i realised earlier that i've lost everything i built up in my head since 2004. i lost my empire. the characters and connections just died out and blew up. they're gone. i don't even work words anymore. there's nothing pretty to look at. i developed some sort of style, i had a vague rhythm and flow once upon a time and now it's gone. it's all gone.

i fucked it out, maybe.

i have this chance at a normal day-to-day, you know? i'm in love and i sleep and i go out and drink grande mocha latte fucking floats or whatever yuppie beverage you wanna slip in there. i wear short skirts; sacrifice my modesty for self-claimed sass and flick my hair liberally at traffic lights.

there's nothing there though. i'm not content with this. i'm wasting my muscle and my mind.

i think i want to write music.

where does this leave me then? in some siberia. some self-imposed halfway house where i get the thoughts but they don't make a damn.

and what a time for siberia. for empty letters and the barest of sentiments. what a time for this, when there is so much to describe. so much that is new and worthy of script. where words like 'balmy' and 'giddy' come up so often they almost seem contrived. it's not like they capture it anyway. it's not like in the loss of those words we ruin some moment in time, some piece of history. some part of me and my story. it's not like that but i will grieve none the less.

blogging is like dropping bread crumbs. for you and everyone else. for you and an entire world of users. it's like paving the way for those people keeping an eye out. the rangers and rogues among you. you're cluey and you're cunning and you're here.i could be in amsterdam. i could be the most heinous human on the planet but you're still here.

welcome to siberia, malcontents.

what can we trade for time? i could offer a secret but someone might read it. imagine me throwing confessions out in to the cybernetics. not a care in the world. that is far too big a thing to be doing at 3.40am on a sunday morning. that is the quest of a lifetime.

and yet i've been called to task by something. there is some instinct, some sense of duty playing games with my whirring head. i've got the outline but not the shading. no colour. all legs and no heart. but that's okay because sometimes the cadence of clicking keys can fill that space for a time. until you find yourself all heart again.


--

my little nana (that's great grandmother to you), dead at 99, used to trade coupons back in england during the war. she hit the black market like a fiend and got the best deals for her family without pulling the rug out from under anyone. she was as fierce and gentle as the irish get, and sometimes i can still hear her singing me to sleep like she did when i was five.

i bet she would have traded you a secret for your time. a secret and a smile.

deadlines piling up all around me

i'm surrounded by technology i don't know how to use. things flashing at me everytime i turn around. no wonder my heartbeat spikes like this. today was built to stress you out. i wanna embrace primitivism. i wanna spearhead the organic revolution.

whatever. today i'm just searching for rhythm. i have a need but i can't fill it without a flow. don't expect anything from me. you're making this harder. i'm making this harder through you.

i'm sick of being the type of person who waits. i wait and miss out. i'm waiting for the desperation, the point where my only option is to write that brilliant manuscript the first time around. i'm waiting to just turn into someone. something. i'm waiting for someone to knock and my door and hand me a job. i'm waiting for the world to fall in to place or the galaxy to fall apart.

and you know what? that's stupid. whatever.

the world is an act of faith. scientists weigh galaxies and piece together our universe but always come up short. hyperspace finds us wanting. we can only account for ten percent. the last ninety is dark matter. false hope. something you just have to trust exists.

and people can feel that - even the non-science folk. even the kids in trailer parks who lend no thought to the sky. they can feel that we're just counting on our galaxies not to fall apart and that there is a force out there restricting the stars, holding them back so they don't escape. they can sense the flaw of our own arrogance and the nasty intentions of our solar system. they feel it and they fear it and they start casting about for answers, for something that can meet their stare levelly and protect them with strong arms and big hands. they grope around and find religion. no matter which one - no matter if it's allah or buddah or loa or jesus who's saving them. no matter. they grope around and find religion. the answer. the belief. the faith. that's all religion is. it accounts for that. for the dark matter and the restrained stars. it makes promises people can cling to. it writes it down.

i'm drafting alter-egos. fools with names and souls bigger and better and brighter than mine. nothing fits. none of it fits. but i'm on the brink. i'm on the edge of the breakthrough and then we'll see who's laughing.

there is a story in me that's begging to be told. there are hundreds. and one day i'll get to them and you'll know, no matter what fool i cho(o)se, no matter how big or bright or nothin. one day i'll get to them and you'll know.

there's gotta be a crack. gotta be a fault.

suffering is not art.

i always knew that, but am only now coming to believe it.

another juvenile skin to be shed.

wanque

the question has always been about fear. about malice. about rage. how to get past the negative. how to live love and respect. how to transcend. because it's evolution we're after. the true form of the human spirit. the shit that lives on. we want to be that. i want to be that.

how do you cast off fear when it keeps you safe? how do you farewell the only answer you have to the possibility of fatally fucking up? it goes against instinct. it goes against what feels right.

i have figured the answer to be faith. of whatever denomination. believe in christ or a mirror. believe in buddha or allah or prada or da vinci. believe in something.

faith can overcome. faith will overcome.

and it is the only way to overcome fear (tell me if i am wrong). anger gets close, it feels like strength, it feels like a way out. but anger is based on fear, it wraps arms around fear and breathes heavily. anger is like some sort of protective cousin, some sort of neighbourhood watch. it backs fear. it's just a response, and so it feeds itself. it is fear trumping fear with a different face and thicker boots.

but faith? faith understands fear. it soothes and breaks. faith is something people forget to fight for. the world will fight for peace and wealth and innocence, but she forgets faith too quickly. yet it is one of few things that cannot be taken. it cannot be stolen or removed or in any way forsaken. you must give up the fight, faith must be surrendered.

i have surrendered my faith. i did it years ago, and in fear turned to anger. but these days it feels too small. it feels like something i remember but no longer possess. so i am making a break for faith.

i want universal faith. i want faith that does not condemn or wound, faith that steps on no one. i want a faith no path or church or book can give me. faith in all things as divine. my own brand of believer.

that's what i want.

so picture me trying to best fear. i have my game face on. to win faith i best fear. to best fear i need faith. the loop is endless and neverending. it is a mad dash for self-serviced salvation more than it is a leap of eternal hope. there is some grace in leaping but i plan to get ugly. i plan to fight every day. i plan to sweat and groan and ache. i plan to win.

i am learning well-taught lessons. i am learning that nothing matters in the end, but you have to work like it does. i am learning that you should jump headfirst into failure; into the worst possible scenario, just so every time you resurface, you are reminded that you will survive. remember that - you will survive.

you will overcome.

remember your faith.

drop your heart in a/like a beat on the busiest street corner you can find. drop all of it as if you were never attached. tell the saddest story you know to a bum at the lights, and then to the suit walking by.

have as many intimate relationships as you can. be decent. if you have butterflies, say yes even if it can't last. the way it feels to know someone like that, to be told in every way that you are loved and to send back that message.. the elation and the terror.. that makes all the shit less ugly.

(flirt if you are married. fuck your mister. in earnest. fuck that man. top him. do it in public. i don't care if you use a strap-on. don't let the bastards get you down.)

speak up when you are expected to be silent (by yourself, as well as others). there is nothing more fear-inducing than silence.

when you want to stop listening, do it. but make sure you speak up about that as well.

and picture me trying to best fear. but this time, without my game face on. picture me terrified and untouchable. ready to conquer.

but above all, remember your faith. you will overcome.

it's not like i'm lying when i say these things. it's not like i fabricated this whole mess just for my enjoyment. it's not like that.

it's just that my storytelling is too good. i can fill the gaps with so much possibility and likelihood that everything looks different, everything shifts and changes to facilitate a more noteworthy end. i am writing every day like it's a soap, and i'm directing every one of you to that jagged conclusion. but there are not enough flaws, there is not enough distance between perspective a and person b. there is not enough. the spectrum has not been covered. you are all too close, too same, too real to meet the assigned standards.

so i look past it. i look past what you're saying and doing and i grope for what you would rather be saying and doing. i divine it and i fall for it. i am smitten with your taboos, with your restraint. you have me in full, you have my attention and i'm believing it. i believe it. it's authentic and genuine - it means something. it means something more than all this presentation and small-talk bullshit. it means something.

that's where i live. i live in my head with the real you. i marry reality and alternate reality and watch it all unfold, so incredibly staged as to appear spontaneous. this is how an insomniac stays sane. this is why i think things of people that are at once dead accurate and wholly disappointing. i will never stop, i will never alter. this is how it is. and one day i will find the characters i need; the pure, ruined cast that can hook in to my visions and live them out without trying. the sky will split like flesh. the earth will burn and sing. this is my revelation.

no, i have not been reading ginsberg. just the heat wave news

america, you are burning. you are rotting and failing and from the inside you are burning.

are these the horsemen? the scrolls and locusts, the fire and falling stars? america, you live in a constant state of armageddon. doomsday follows doomsday follows the final judgment. who among you is truly sealed and safe?

as your tramps die in gutters and your junkies die of aids, as your countrymen suffer and beg for death - as your city your palace your kingdom breaks off and falls into the ocean, what will you sing? in acapella your anthem? a nation of patriots still refusing to jump ship? or will you reach deeper than that and find the blues, the truest songs of america. sing the blues and float away.

a kingdom drowning in blood. it is about time you paid your dues.

answer me, america. answer yourself. who among you is truly sealed and safe? the men singing the blues. a pure seal of faith. not just embracing fear but love and remorse and all the things you can find in the minor chords of a man who has struggled with every single day, but who refuses to give in to the freedom of death. there is strength for you there. rescue your blues from the fire, america. in the rhythm you will find reserve. it is your song. it is your only hope.

my america, i still worship you. i still worship your strength and your vision, but you are staring down the barrel of our apocalypse. you are staring and grinning as if you are better than this.

but who among you is truly sealed and safe?

there's some pretty pictures going around lately. some nasty visions.

i've got a few. maybe.

i'm as good as ever.

it just took me awhile to remember that i'm a solid citizen (i steal this term unabashedly from angelina. it works). i'm golden, really. i think it is paramount to remember that in all things. i am okay. and no more of this comparative feeling. this, yeah i'm bad but you're worse. no, fuck that. i don't live your life, i don't handle your shit. you do. i don't want to bounce my current of your current. we are not one.

i'm golden.

it's funny. right now i'm looking sharp from the ankles up, but my feet were cold so i stuck them in some furry slippers. feels good. i want to go out like this. surprise, i'm not as suave as you thought.

tonight some guy came up to me and told me i was hot shit like i hadn't worked it out already. it gave me pause, because my initial response was irritation. i did not simper. it was the way he said it. like it was more about bestowing me with his sterling praise, for which i was to be thankful, than for giving me some sort of acknowledgment or genuine recognition of Hot Shit in another person. so i talked back. i am mouthy. but i thought about it, and i thought about how that wasn't very fulfilling. spiritually, maybe. so i stopped him as he went to leave and apologized. i apologized because it wasn't my place to reprimand a person for that kind of arrogance. that arrogance that assumes you wouldn't have already grinned at yourself as you were styling your hair. i had to dwell on the implications of that. how much of my irritation was about my own (not to get too therapeutic lingo on you here, but..) self-belief? do i assume that others assume etc. i haven't fully thought it through yet, so gimme some time and i will get back to this.


i just wanted to check in though. nothing flashy. just wanted to tell you that, while i'm trying to fix some of the less attractive particulars of my situation, on all fronts i'm pretty much.. golden.

don't get me wrong here. i'd hate to misrepresent myself to anyone. i'd hate to do myself that injustice. i'm not solely comprised of rage and her angry sisters. there is more to me than that. i run deeper, i hit scared and angry and kept on digging. i run deeper, and i've worked hard for that to be true.

but i have retained my caveman response to danger. danger of all natures; we're talking physical, emotional, spiritual danger. i see it everywhere. i rail against it with whatever reserves i have. i hate. i start spitting warnings and threats at anyone in the state-wide vicinity who looks like they could be in it for themselves. i back myself up immediately.

that is about fear or walking wounded though. i run deeper. i love flowers. i marvel at my existence every morning. i close my eyes when i hug my friends.

you'll see. i was tiny when i figured out anger and hate don't leave much room for evolution. animosity slows vibration. you will never reach nirvana if you meditate on vexation.

you'll see. i am fierce and lovely. it's just that right now i'm running backwards through what i know to be helpful. i am over-riding all good thoughts and sliding straight into home. straight to safe. i am short-circuiting my response and locking in anger. but i will get a handle on myself. and then you'll see. i am fierce and lovely. i even have soft hands.

fuck man i'm trying to get back into it. if i were to title this, it would be ominously so: THE LAKE

mother nature always takes the fairest ones. the sweetest in some way prettiest ones. the ones with soft voices and gentle mouths. mother nature always takes the fairest ones, and i don't blame her.

i don't blame her one bit. but what am i to do? standing here holding this photo. always holding this photo. holding it like i've held it over and over again. getting drunk on whiskey like i've been drunk over and over again. it's a night like this, and i'm doing it over and over again.

i never saw it but i picture you hanging. suspended. chains running straight from your gut to the sky. was there a hook? did it hurt? now your heart is turned to the gods; it always belonged up there. will they know that like we do? i think no evil. i am humble, and quietened.. you are sleeping just south of heaven. i can't blink. i can't breathe. my vision tunnels, and i struggle to keep watching: your back is arched and your arms are hanging, your fingers skim the water. i can almost hear the sockets in your shoulders straining. arms were never supposed to bend that way.

i never even saw it, but it's all i see.

and this photo. this wretched photo. this hallowed bullshit portal back to you. i still can't see you in the frame. i can imagine your grin and the way your skin swallowed up the sun, but i can't see you in the photograph. there is no definition, no true outline. there is nothing that shakes me, nothing that makes sense to me. maybe because my eyes have given up on anything but white space. they've given up on everything. i am empty of faith of trust of love and i am clinging to this photo like it's my last chance at today.

it is hard to say whether this is a photo of you. it is hard to explain how it is a photo of you. the date that screams liar from the bottom corner, the very bottom corner, that date is one day after your death. and they shake their heads like i'm old and i'm drunk and i'm mad and say, 'but how. how is this a photo of her?'

i tell them to look. i scream at them and wail, my voice breaks. just look and you are there. beneath the surface. it is hard to explain how it is a photo of you. but i put my finger where i think you may be. right near the bank, you know? 'cuz you woulda struggled to get out. you woulda struggled to get back to this. an eternity of this. an eternity more of this. over and over again.

i point there. right near the bank. and i say, that's where we lost her. that's where she drowned.

over and over again. i'm looking at the white space and all they see is some mad old drunk.

forgive me for all this. i'm trying to shift. trying to mutate. trying to drop out of the real world for awhile. my head and my heart and my life are not in agreement right now. they do not fall in to line.

why?

i don't know. there is no one truth. it is all truth. someone said that and i think they were dead on. there is no one truth and every day is decay. every morning is a second chance. you get the gist. write me a cliche and i'll repeat it for you. i will whisper it or growl it or whatever you want. i am here to please.

so there is no one truth. what are we doing then? what are we milling about for? you wanna make money and then you wanna kick out pretending it was worth it? like you didn't slave away for something that will be built over two years after you're in your grave (which will be built over), spinning round and round like some junkie in need of exorcism. like you didn't forego a slow-burning passion with the world because you were too busy sticking it in the boss' daughter for a good word? nothing you own is yours. how do you feel?

and you, bohemia. you're not much better. you're full of pretension and notions that don't have a place in this life any more. what are you doing? are you writing your way, or are just telling people you are? is there even a difference? it's not like they give a shit, it's not like they'd stop to read it any way. really read it. not look with their eyes for what dirt it gives them - not snoop around for what cracked out shit it says about you and your person and where you've been and what you said, but fucking READ it and understand it. actually grab a hold of the crap that came out of your head and do something with it. take it somewhere. take it across the border and then deposit it inside someone else. a new breed of disease. a new seed of disease. then maybe they'll figure out where you've been and what you said and who you fell in love with every day of that summer. maybe then they'll get you, and maybe then they'll pass you on righteously. do you some justice.

ahh.

you can run but you cannot hide. how about i just shoot you.

combat boots lend an air of fuck off that i could not carry otherwise. there is something primal about big boots and a scowl. something your throat responds to. something that makes you giddy.

maybe i'm projecting. maybe i'm wrong. maybe this is all about me and i should stop using pronouns that suggest you're somehow involved.

you're not. you're not involved in my world. you're not even involved in your own world. you're not really involved in what's going on. you like to flick the switch when things get ugly. you like to justify it by using words like 'need' and 'can't.

the world is like this. you NEED to understand that. you NEED to act if it upsets you. you CAN'T ignore it and play like that helps. you CAN'T submit and give your power over to someone else. why are you here? there is no one truth. it is all truth. so what are you doing?

what am i talking about anyway. just some things that bug me. forgive me for all this. like i said, i'm trying to shift. trying to mutate. trying to drop out of the real world for awhile.

but isn't that what blogs are for? didn't you come here to watch me fall apart?

lover or narcissist

hey, come here. let me strip you down and wear you out.

sometimes you just gotta say, "buck, step forward."

because sometimes you're the only one who hasn't. everything else has stepped forward. everyone else has fronted for whatever eternal roll call this is. and you're still curled up in bed, trying to keep warm, trying to keep safe. but you just gotta say it. buck, step forward.

and sometimes you've gotta say it twice. step forward, k? it's hard enough already.

it's in the friction. the friction of skin. that's what people lose themselves in. it's not the idea of escape. it's not the warmth of another's eyes. it's the friction. it's dry lips on dry lips. it's a freezing cold finger over a pulse. it's the friction. think about the friction next time. just the friction. isolate it and focus on it and people will notice. they will draw back and look at you with a question on their face. and they won't know what the question is. you just tell them, just tell them - just say, "it's the friction."

the friction of skin.

knuckles cut up and bruised. swollen. knocked back to the wrist. and maggots all over my feet. you know. maggoty maggots maggoting around. writhing. sucking. they're foul. they make my skin crawl. and if i put my finger in front of them, if i wave it front of them, they follow it. they follow the flesh. i fucking hate maggots. just sit there thinking if i held it by its tail end it would bend and contort and there would be nothing i could do. couldn't break its spine. it doesn't have one. couldn't drop it because then who knows what would happen.

what am i talking about. i guess i'm looking for something here. a rhythm. i haven't really got bruised knuckles. there are no maggots. i'm not hallucinating. not yet. but i picture things like that all the time. i picture things. i might be in a conversation, and i picture something, and i want the conversation to end so i can look at this picture in my head and what's going on and who's involved, but the conversation never stops. because people like to talk. people like the sound of their own bleating. if only they would only shut the fuck up, i could look at the picture.

so what if my mood is violent? so what if i rage against anything you impose on me.

we are alone here and it feels like death. all the arches are empty. so what if i occasionally feel murderous. there is almost nothing keeping me here. almost nothing between where i am now and where the others end up. you can hear my resolve snapping. i don't sleep. i don't eat. every comma predicts a finale. what comes next. the question i cannot avoid. the question i cannot hide from. i hear it in every song and every story. i hear it everywhere.

what next?

nothing. all i wanted from you was something quiet. something quick and empty that left me smiling. and you fucked up. you were supposed to be disinterested. you were supposed to be familiar and distant and easy. when did you change the rules? when the fuck did this become about us and not just you and not just me? you messed up in the only way possible. i laid it out and all you had to do was follow the plan. according to plan. things are not running according to plan. because you messed up. you made it about us and how we feel and what we think about the situation. there was never a we. there is still no we. it was all about me from the start. just me and what i wanted. and you messed up. now watch me break your heart all over you. watch my face and tell me if i flinch.

let's write this like a soap.

too much as hemlock

and, truly, thou ART the hidden god. but i refuse to search every moment, every person and every corner to find proof of a thought. a thought that whispers in tongues and promises in stereo, maybe, but a thought nonetheless.

dwell on this with me. imagine fate staring down will until both begin to blur. until faces suffer sharp angles and the room starts to warp. walls melting. floor tilting.

not again.

fate and will locked in some eternal staring competition until their eyes leak out or it just seems that way. trick of the light. like saying a word over and over and over again until it completely forgets who it is or where it was going. what were you going to say?

you said it. there was just no definition to the words. and suddenly fate looks like karma and will is just a shrug. all because you stared too long. thought too hard.

live simple.

intellect gets in the way. it makes us forget that we decay just like our country. it allows us to call forth emotion that does not fit circumstance. instinct works. it is raw and crude and probably wrong but it feels good. i don't know if you've guessed this but art is instinct. when the poet begins to think he is not writing. when the painter sits back to consider his work, he will never again find the exact spot or posture he assumed when the painting was first born. it will never be complete, because everything has changed. the original portait is ruined. heart trickles out of the cracks that thoughtful pause caused.

do you see?

live simple.

where words dissolve one by one into other words. where sentiment is eaten by thought and everything comes apart at the seams. where satan says fuck the pearly gates, fuck jesus, fuck you guys i am making this place heaven. different strokes.

whatever.

where i am walking left and the world is spinning right but like amanda says gravity plays favourites. just let me sit upon my throne gravitron, i have no beef with you. don't make this a vendetta because i can't help it when my tactics turn dirty. leave me spinning on my axis. on your axis. the sun is an axis because we're at that place where words dissolve like rice paper, one by one they weep and bleed into each other. a trail of ink dying halfway across a page. an omen if you ever saw one. leaves me spinning on my axis.

satan is making a heaven of his hell and it's time for you to choose. are you a god or a peasant? it's time for you to choose.

i'm with satan.

what's up buk?

i have a secret blog for my secret blog. i have aliases covering aliases covering alter egos. my paranoia is wrapped so tightly around itself that it's starting to suspect some sort of internal mutiny.

and what then?

reality check.

what's up sydney. what's up canada. welcome to the masquerade.

reality check.

what's in a name anyway? what are we running from, buck? larry? jack? what pursues the non-extant?

what's in a name? a face. a tone. has it changed, has it altered? can you pick the buck from the larry or is it all one uniform blur of pixels that don't matter to you? mislabelled self-indulgence.

who knows. maybe i'll get a barcode tattooed to my neck. what's in a name anyway?

pssh. what's up william. you are forgiven.

so my secret blog from my secret blog. it is not so much. some words hidden from some eyes that probably don't exist. paranoia i am done with you. i will talk to you until you recede.

what colour is your fear? my fear is red. my fear is one night of extended scrutiny and a contact so tenuous it barely exists. my fear is ten weeks of your misery for my pleasure. my fear is white hot and getting closer every day. my fear you say. my fear doesn't exist, lady. back off.

my favourite game involves rum and smoke and bars and pretending i'm bukowski. only to other people. i only pretend on the outside. on the inside i'm larry and buck and jack and a whole page of worlds and words spinning in the palm of my hand. names and faces. all one. all me. pretending. just pretending.

but on the outside i'm communing with rum and cigarettes. i'm frowning. thinking. creating.

on the outside i'm bukowski.

what's in a name anyway?

reality check.

what's up buk?

yeah. reality check.

love: part the second

HOWEVER, love: the verb. the doing. love: the doing. love that leaves marks and scratches? that bruises and bleeds? love you can watch in hallways and on trains?

that kind of love. love the verb the doing i'm glowing type love, well.. that is worth giving your words up for. that is worth giving my words up for. that is worth pretending the other love is not so bad after all.

i'm glowing. you'll do.

laborare est orare

today
and here's a name,
nothing but a name
written across my clenched
fist

love

real love isn't beautiful or tragic like
hollywood tells
it does not conquer mountains
or heal wounds
it does not resurrect the dead.

tears don't turn to blood when it's
love

love is not beyond words
or sentiment
it is not the greatest of all
emotion
and it does not write poetry
as it unfolds
naked between the sheets

love sounds like hope
like the religion of the old world
where work was worship and
it was faith and fear we believed in

love has no colour
beyond hurt
or the sound of lies as they fall
hot across our pillows

it is not the cancer
that blinds men
at its
climax

love is too easily confused
excused
with lust and
cowardice

it is too easily the name
given to need
and melodrama

love is failure
it is guilt,
sorrow;
the flaws of a lifetime
forgiven in an hour

love is belied by wisdom
and terror

love is the song sung in trenches
across history's wrinkled palm
it is carrying what is
too heavy to bear
because there is no other choice
but burden

love is a poet's fingers
stained with the ink that grieves
a face;
a familiar scent
left in the seams of your favourite shirt

love is the trust shared between two people
with no future

it is the ugliest,
lowest
way
to wake up:
in love,
breath sour with regret
and a name,
nothing but a name
written across your clenched
fist

today.

how do you do? i can't write anymore

this is scary. let me try.