itching fingers.

I want to write.
I want to write.
but something always holds me back
perhaps I don't have the curve of your neck memorized perfectly...

it's always something like that.

I need my obsession for my creation. I need the knowledge I really shouldn't have.isn't it funny how we have all these tools at our disposal? and we feel an expansion of lungs.

I don't need love.  It's a waste of my time.
But I'm jealous of those who can throw down and hook up
Not waste their time daydreaming of dogs and houses and tree lined streets.

Antithesis.  Clothes slipped on just to be tossed off.
Too sheer, doesn't cling to the figure enough
Yet you are who you are and I am jealous of this.

I am more lines than I ever knew possible, and at the time I could never want them.

"I love you and everything is beautiful."

[It hasn't been this bad since her.]

scruff. it's funny how much I like it.
you should shave, really, because it's homely
but come to think of it, it's so... you
I could wrestle with self doubt and say hello, how are you, how was your weekend
but my tongue forever exists in knots
and I feel the dryness in my throat before I can even get the words out
so I stop. because you're perfect. and I can't deny that.

okay, so no one is perfect. I lied in that respect.
but I'm torn between assumptions and resignations.
would you be interested? do you stare at younger men with longing?
it gets me hot under the collar and cold in my stomach, jealous and pleased.
I always get like this, reduced to this, because of my self doubt.
and you are none the wiser, self regarded oblivion as I hang on your every mistake

bitch, show me your body.

I still feel your face, against hands that have
never graced you. you burn
patterns in my cheeks, my twisted spine and
shirt collar white, contrasted with black
and I don't know you. and I don't know
you, with shadow tickling my palms and
feeling smoke fill my lungs, imaginary
seeing your static and unkempt, stupid stupid hair
(jesus christ do you ever wash it but that's cute)
(seriousness in clover and dust smoke, bicycles and
bags from other bags, from jeans frayed and torn with
same shirts with holes but I've grown to smile)

asides aside, you were never one to question but
how would I know that I just
assume, assume and remove myself from situations
imaginary, brutal, intensity soft and slow like piano keys
against my callused fingers, out of practice out of line
barre chords and nylon instead, uselessness
and kitsch, I'm eclipsing, something I despised but
would you like that. you wouldn't I guess, you
wouldn't. I guess. I don't know you. I don't
know you. imaginary, acerbic with shining dark
eyes, turbulent ocean and icy sky clash for fleeting moments
you ask me to repeat things and I comply, wanting you to
be satisfied with stripes. jeans with frays and tears, same
shirts, black with white.

blank.

filling in spaces, but of course.

i want.

something to make sense.

to not feel tension gripping at my throat, squeezing and slipping, kneading me.

to say hello.

to not feel like a fool, like I'm fat, like I don't deserve anything.

red.

I study your worry lines in peripherals
and try not to think about the times I've wanted your hands on me.
I feel as though it's been years, years and years
yet seconds since you last looked into my eyes.
jumping to conclusions just so you can find my glance.

our fingertips touched and there were no sparks
no quickened heartbeats, just a pressure from both ends.
it wasn't just me. I know it wasn't just me.

I feel so raw whenever you move the slightest inch
yet I'm not sure if I want to know you
because I understand I'll just be disappointed.

sinking feeling.

but no, no it's not that

i'm just lonely is all

and that's okay.

honestly, I'm only broken wings and cockle shells.