But there's something inescapable
About this deoxyribose stuff.

As though its winding skelter might secretly
Hold all of fate
In its innocent-looking strands.

The bravest thing
Is the way I look while i'm swallowing my pride, looking in your eyes while I try to listen to you like your not about to lie, because you have. But I have to to give you another chance, yes I am scared. I can't stay here but I can't bare the though of leaving without you there.

The bravest thing
Is telling you everything, even how i feel thinking you might leave me when i decide to say whats real at the price that it won't match with your ideal of "true love" you have high hung above my name. I can't change the way i think, ignore the way i feel i hope you stay.

The bravest thing
Is telling you what I see when you want to pretend that how you feel is all that's real, that everything's simple and can be ignored. But you are wrong and I tell you afraid you may forget the many ways I strive to say the simple things and that you are my favorite place.

The bravest thing
was when you looked at me and said I was worth everything every word every fight, worth every night you were up late irate with the way things play when we can't get a **** thing right to save our lives. When you told me again and again, most of all the way you tried.

Sometimes the day after the night I don't sleep.
With eyes wide, my heart beats, with angry lines
Across my face,
looking like my crinkled sheet.
I can't think about anything.
Can't think....
So I spread my heat on the lines
Of one crinkled sheet of notebook paper,
A page that looks, I think
A whole lot like me the day after the night I don't sleep.
So I can reflect on what it is that day I wan't to be.
I guess today I am a scribbled
Poem on notebook paper,
Most normal people
Might through away.

A glimpse- and rushing
Your fingers rough
But warm as they find the skin  
beneath my hair-
grasp the back of my neck and
we’re embracing through heavy coats:
a sturdy crush to reach our organs,
placate the crave for your trace.

It’s always elation, first.
A squealing burst I stifle-
My brain is jelly in the station.
It’s a stinging cold but I won’t wear gloves
as we walk home and
our united skin blends as our fingertips
grow numb.

I’ll say, “I’ve missed you”
and mean more- only because the words are missing
and it’s easier – less syllables
to say than to explain
how you’re the colour to my scenery;
and without you, my kaleidoscope gives
only grey triangles.