Springtime, the only pretty ring time

“Here is my hand, my heart, my throat, my wrist. Here are the illuminated cities at the center of me, and here is the center of me, which is a lake, which is a well that we can drink from, but I can’t go through with it. I just don’t want to die anymore.” — Richard Siken

If I speak too soon at this it could be over. But I want to say it, shout it, anything it. So here it will remain. Here it will be captured -- the reawakening of us. My timeless, ageless love for you -- oh, God, it has never ceased! Like I told you, it just lies dormant and it's brought to life by your voice, your breath, your ability to capture me with your love.
I watched Law and Order Thursday night.
I listened to Green Day and had Spaghettio's on Friday.
You predicted it all.
How do you know me? Do you just know me? Am I easy to you? I want to know these things because the answers will provide honesty, and I assume too much when we speak in metaphor.
I want to love you until your hair turns grey.
I have loved you fiercely these many, many years.
Will you make time if I make time? All we've had is time, but it has continuously been off.
Love me and I will love you. Be ready.

"and there's nothing to get hung about"

K

You were a boy I knew in school
and the fall makes me think of you

I admired you from afar
and the fall makes me think of you

A smile that cured suburban blues
and the fall makes me think of you

You walked the streets just like me
and the fall makes me think of you

You died in the springtime
but the fall makes me think of you

You frequent my dreams
and still the fall makes me think of you

Don't speak to me in code,
Don't speak to me in symbols
Speak to me using words of emotion

I will hear you
I always hear you
I'm always aware

You're more alive today than ever
and the fall makes me think of you

I know when you are near
you bring the fall when I think of you

new song lyrics

Untitled as of right now. Any title suggestions are completely warranted.

The Carolinas are so old
I wonder about the soil there
As I toil through the day
That consists of nothing new

I want to do all the right things
Like not contribute to the system
So I don't own a car
And I don't buy stuff at the mall

Maybe in a year
I'll have a place in Baltimore
And let paintings of the sunsets
Unleash my steady bones

And if I walk off
Don't look beyond the sea
Leave me to discover
And sew what the future may reap

They have blinded us for centuries
But I don't mean to place blame
The recognition, it births action
And I am in the meadow, rising

crush

Butterflies are swarming. It literally feels like something is eating away at my stomach lining. It's most likely because I've not felt this way in a while. The intensity is invigorating and electric. I feel everything like it's the first time I've ever felt anything. This. Is. Bad. Badly written, yes, because it's tremendously difficult to verbalize a fleeting feeling.
It's been a week, and everyday I've uttered some version of "I don't want to feel this way" out loud to various people. I mostly scream it down the tunnels of my mind. It only floods the reverberated mess and increases my heart rate. Nothing helps. I can't even properly cry. I know the outcome of this, and it isn't a place where my hopeful, animated heart skips merrily down the path to Lovers Lane with her male counterpart.
Nay.
This is me making a huge mistake. This is me throwing myself against the wind.
I am developing expectations. You know how I know? Because I am dreaming about the future. I am never in the future. I am always here. I am always now.
It has been Tom for so long. Now comes this, this guy. This guy who doesn't want anything that I want, but deep down wants something. I don't want him to make me laugh, or make me think, or introduce me to his friends, or make me feel special, or drive all the way out here to see me, or call me back when he says he will.
Because it all makes me think ahead. And when I think ahead I'm not HERE. I'm off making plans in some made up world that will never exist. It will never exist because things like that don't exist for me. I know it. And that's not me feeling bad for myself. I love that it exists at all. I love watching it happen to those I know. Being a witness to such wonders is like seeing God. So I do not feel bad. I just get carried away. And I don't want to be swept up in this.
Even if he cares a little, a little is a lot to me, a lot more than what I have.

I'll update soon.

Rod McKuen

I stumbled through the door very late one Thursday night this August. The NYC air still on my skin. Strewn across my staircase were two books, and a picture of me dressed as a clown at the circus when I was all but four years old. I smiled at that pudgy faced Meghan and then glanced at the books. I flicked the light switch. In bold letters at the top of each book read: "ROD McKUEN" and I found myself wondering which one of my parents placed them there. They smelled old, and looked like books you'd only see on the shelf of an abandoned bookstore from the 1930's. I breathed them in, and skimmed the first couple of pages of the red book. I read it all the way through, not noticing the tears that were imperturbably sliding down my cheeks. It had been an emotional day. His words were so simple, and that simplicity struck the very core of me. I often find that when poets use very few words to convey tremendous emotion . . . I'm hooked. I doggy-ear'd my favorites, and then went on upstairs to read the next book entited "In Someone's Shadow". I had no concept of time, all I knew was that I longed to find some gems within the pages. As I settled in and began reading, I noticed there were markings on some of the pages. Some of the page numbers were circled, as well as the titles, and some of the words were underlined. Without realizing it I found myself going back to the discernible pages, for on them were the poems that spoke to me the loudest.
And then I found my heart splattered across page 20:

"May 17

I believe that crawling into you
is going back into myself.
That by the act of
joining hands with you
I become more of me.

There are no whisky bars
for dancers like ourselves,
and so we move into each other
like drunkards into open doorways.

My need for you is near addiction.

No sailor ever had tattoos
growing on his forearm
the way your smile
has willed itself back behind my eyes.

It will not dissolve.
It will not divide.
For I am nothing if not you."

I read that piece of brilliance at least a dozen times before feeling satisfied enough to move on to the others. However, my mind wandered. I was overwrought by that haunting poem.
Alas, I fell asleep with dried, salty tears on my face. The next day I asked my mother who left them for me, she told me they were her books, and explained 'the man behind the verse' a bit further. In those moments, thinking back on the circled pages and underlined words, I realized my heart had a twin. I will always love her more than she'll ever know.