vaguely here

I am the face of indecision

You’re mine to hold
like a chocolate
under my tongue
til you melt
hold you in places
no one else has
ever felt
hold you in the back
of my mind
all day
you’re mine
at my whim
to fantasize and
to toy with
to hold you fast
between my teeth
like a secret
I will keep
to roll you around
on my tongue
to inhale you slowly
to hold you deep
in my lungs
to savor
the taste of
to chew on you
like gum
til I’m almost
ready to

hum
your name
on my lips
in my sleep
you’re mine
to hold
the last note of
my favorite song
you’re mine
to tease
all day
long

I draw lines of my past on my flesh
So that I may carry it with me now
Because I know not where I go but
I know I’m likely to get lost
Because I’m always losing way
Losing sight of my home
Losing sight of myself
And these lines will guide me back
To the little pale haired girl
I left so far behind

In Spanish there’s a word that means to want and to love and to care about. But in English we seem to prefer to drag them apart. I want you. I love you. I like you. I care about you. They all stand alone. One does not imply the other. Sometimes quite the contrary. I care about you. (But. I do not love you.) I love you. (But. I do not want you) I want you. (But. I do not love you.) Why do we dissect beautiful things and pull out all the intestines to differentiate? We are not just content with trusting what’s within. Or we are just too curious. We’re always prying and categorizing and isolating.

Homesick is a word I’ve never understood. I yearn for haven from noise and prying eyes but not for any in particular. I don’t miss the structure of my house, the streets of my city, the routine of friends. I yearn to see more, to find better things outside. Farther and farther, out past where all others turn back. That’s where the real adventure begins. That’s where real possibility lies. If nothing else, I’d like to leave some footprints on untrodden ground.

You’ll never hear the heart beat of the trees
Without getting down on your knees
With the insects and the earth
If you’re so distracted by shiny things
You’ll never recognize a real pulse
Even if it’s bleeding all over you
You’ll be covered in warm blood
And still staring blindly at the sun

We are what we pretend to be, so we must be careful about what we pretend to be.
Kurt Vonnegut, Mother Night (via observando)
Unbeing dead isn’t being alive.
e.e. cummings (via observando)
We are what we pretend to be, so we must be careful about what we pretend to be.
Kurt Vonnegut, Mother Night (via observando)
–after which our separating selves become museums filled with skilfully stuffed memories
it is so long since my heart has been with yours by e.e. cummings

In movies there’s candles and sunset walks
But what I miss is sloppy sleepy kisses
Morning boners and morning breath
Waking up pressed up against you
Like even in my sleep I miss you
And biting fights and rubbing backs
And making faces brushing teeth
And standing on my toes to kiss you
And bringing you your coffee