Antitheses

Your memory is compelling:

caramel dreams of happiness,

so sweet, so intoxicating

days of fickle planning,

by your part at least.

of secret kisses in the car,

only to be replaced moments later.

nights of passion and love combined,

you passion - me love.

of eternally stimulating conversations,

my lectures.

3 months of an addictive love,

a relative term.

of emotional and social turmoil,

directly caused by your "indirect" decisions.

Your memory is compelling,

just enough to make me sick.

My Only One

Beauty: on the tips of my fingers and tongue.

These phrases, connected, somewhat seamlessly,

all of them, unfortunately for you.

This confession, my only one, derives from sin:

sin of unmeasured passion,

sin of free emotions,

sin of infinite love

for someone other than me.

All acts committed in your name

come naturally-

have reason-

are rational-

are beautiful,

even this romanticizing confession.

Why dispel you completely? -

you and I birth these

beautiful-

sometimes incoherent-

true

combinations, contradictions, and confessions.

Reading Cheap Novels

Ojos verdes

manos de escultor -

cuantas haz manipulado?

Leo tus expresiones arbitrarias:

Perdon, mi amor, no soy ingenua.

Nunca lo vas a figurar.

Pelo negro

boca de actor -

tu fachada ya me lo se.

La obra que crees arte

es me guia:

dejalo que vive en su imaginacion.

No caigas en lo mismo de las otras

Piel de caramelo,

mente de Escorpion -

finges dulzura, pero te conozco:

Mentiroso, Peverso, Manipulador.

Nada como tu cara indica

Varying Currencies

Promises: words.

The only thing you ever gave me,

besides Grief.

What better than to repay you in the same Currency.

But my words are the Euro

And yours the gravel in the road.

My words have meaning,

you're not worthy of this Load.

Sick Family Trees

Once, a plethora of emotion:
Now, a simple shadow-
Love, you I shun.

Pain, a rejected inheritence:
what heresy to treat it
with amorous patience.

Epiphany!

Father, Love
Child, Pain.

Holding no part will I
in such incestuous ways.

Genre

Words - shuffling submissively

Each phrase inching closer to a goal.

Body language beats so loudly:

pounding, thumping - rhythmically

Their hands - instruments only they know to play:

a code, a dialect: known to two.

The Genre they comply to:

A Difficult Dance

Wishful Thinking.

Thunder breaks through my windows and doors, and emits a comforting rumble.

In my mind, it's you knocking on the door, drenched, asking to come in.

Baby, You Can't.

Slice and dice me: I can't feel a thing.

Try to get close to my heart: I bet you you'll fail.

Open my eyes to a world full of illusions: promises are for the weak.

Treat me like your rag: Baby, you can't. I'm invulnerable.

Indulgences

Fresh salts dampen her cheeks.

Who's to say she's happy?

Who's to say she's sad?

She's so lost in a transition

that reeks of familiarity.

She doesn't do well,

but she fakes it so swell.

She's ready to be done.

For everything that's in the air

to be stuck in concrete.

She's wants clarity

and certainty.

But no one will indulge her in such luxury.

Love is a Loud Lie.

Passing everything, nothing important, and I find myself lost. Lost amongst a dirty sea of people that are apathetic and pathetic. I'm drowning in this mass, and nothing, not even driftwood, can make it to save me. Somehow, the surface doesn't appeal to me either. A lie that is breathed by all, spread by all, known by all as something pure plagues the stable ground, and I'd rather sink swiftly to the bottom of the apathy. I'd rather live in truth.

When The Summer Becomes The Fall

When the beach weather drops to a blandness,

When the relaxation is kicked out only to be replaced by stress,

When the summer becomes the fall, I'll be closer to winter.

A time less foreign, but much too familiar for my taste.

When the days grow shorter, I'll eschew the haste

to remember anything from a previous time.

My hair's different. My clothes are too.

Maybe even my philosophy.

When the summer becomes the fall,

that later evolves into winter

I'll be the same, only better.

8.2.10

The gown stuck on her scrapes the grey sand, and the waves scrape her. Not even the tumultuous salts of the water can distract her mind from the earlier events of the evening. Nothing can distract her.

She walks the stone cold coast with salty tears and a dress now tinted to the hues of the depths of the sea. What does the land have to offer besides pain and grief? And without thought, she is added to the ocean: lost, lonely, but with some hopeful glee.