january.

in bed you are the chocolate flourless torte from your dessert menu
we blend the way wet sugar dissolves, forming something newer
the sweet crunchy crumbs at the bottom of your tea
in bed it's all delicious, the skin and sweat 
are small papered notes that say i adore you over and over 
that you stick to your window till they form my name in every language.
i hope this a long drive with your favorite record loud, 
i hope it's a fresh grapefruit, your river, whatever you want.
i hope you're middle aged and only just learning what a love letter really is,
what they really, really could be.
in bed, sometimes if i'm lucky i get a glimpse of your face but all i see is light,
sometimes if i'm lucky your hands on my cheek 
and warmth becomes something like water you close your eyes to feel

fourth street

so okay it's not creative, so it's not an unworn sweater. but it's true.  i dreamt of the boy who died this year, cliche i know. he was twenty-two when it happened and my first kiss at eleven. in december of 96' we snuck into manhattan on the F train. our parents never found out. no one ever found out. so fine, i dreamt about the first boy whose lips touched mine; dead now, i guess, his lips somewhere, his soul somewhere else. pieces scattered? i don't know. i'm not religious.

in the dream i shook his shoulders. his eyes were big and wet and he was fidgeting, occupied with something that i could probably never fathom.
who are you now, is the question i asked him again and again.
 "i need you to tell me who it is you are now."
years were driving by as i asked, the answer i couldn't even squint to see.
the things we are made of. these things we are made of.
he looked at the floor, which was white, maybe snow, i thought, maybe not. probably not. light poured our of every crevice, but still things seemed smooth despite the holes. i begged him, on my knees, "what are you now."
"i'm not what i was," he told me. i'm not what i was. what i was.
i remembered his hair and his hands and his really long eyelashes. the dream boys hands were identical, i still held them, "you are what you were," i said, "i can feel it. here." here.


i don't remember how we parted but i know it was clear i wasn't sure what had just happened, not really. i don't know how we parted but the world had long fallen, which is the thing about dreaming, or maybe the thing about being like me. "i'm not what i was." falling is a constant; body parts, heart strings, words, thoughts, wine glasses, hope.
the world is a flimsy thing, a crinkly tin foil thing you should never sink your teeth into or stare at for too long. in my dreams i call out but no one ever answers.
in dreams i live on coffee and whiskey, there are silk underwear and record players, a rug that is white, maybe snow, maybe not. probably not.


and yeah, it's trite, a worn-out conventional thing, the dream ghost, but it's no 60's orange juice commercial, it's no valentines day rose.
he died in his sleep on a sunday and there's nothing cliche about that. i wonder if his mouth was a little open, a steady sleep breath, when i woke up i thought of those breaths pausing, and running away. i never fell back asleep. i hope he was dreaming of record players and girls in silk underwear, i hope he is a little of what he was.

if a nipple hummed.


no, see, it's gone and silences are getting hints from silences & things start to feel like putting your hands deep in soil when you were young.

cycles, streets and opium

       It's the type of quandary I thought could be solved by putting "To Ramona" by Bob Dylan on repeat, laying on my floor smoking cigarettes while you slept in my bed and I watched your erratic dream breaths lift your chest.
         I sleep in and out, like city trains, the sound of the seemingly impossible speed of the underground thing and then the stop, the bell, the door-opening-swish, and the outside world, a new smell and a new group of people, probably sad or they look sad, which is the same thing. It's a series of flashes, too many horror stories for one space in a series of spaces in this means of transportation. I already knew I cried in my sleep, you didn't have to tell me.
         When you leave you close the door so quiet. I watch the slow turn of the handle but I think of your hand on the other side. I know your avoiding the click and the slam shut, you want me to sleep, want me to dream of you and I will, I do, when I'm not stuck in a swamp or hanging off the very top of a four-story building. I never hear that door make a sound, under the blankets my heart beats and I put a finger in my mouth. 'That is a huge bruise,' I say in my head. 
 The problem with something that satiates is you always get hungry again 
 But I am okay with that.