I want to be close enough to hear the ringing in your ears, but if you heard the ringing in mine would you even pick up the phone?
Because your conscience is clear and as long as your secret can keep a secret, your eyes are too empty for anyone to tell.
But I know that to tell how someone is loving you've got to look into their "I"'s.
Ask them if snowflakes think they're falling or flying? The same way I've plummeted into you while I somehow imagined I was still the pilot.
Ask if the clouds aim to protect the earth from the light or the sun from the darkness on earth?
Because love isn't blind, love is a blindfold.
It's a blanket when you weren't cold, recognizing his tire in the road.
And I've never been good at lingual warfare,
but I have a feeling soon I'll be using my grey hairs
as a form of punctuation
in a fruitless explanation-to myself
that the way you touch me isn't a 'waist' of time.
And as long as you keep calling, I will answer to the ringing in my ears.

Sleepy moon,
Can I see you soon?
Can I watch your rays of light,
Fall upon me tonight?
Can I feel your soft dust,
Of peaceful sleeping lust?
Oh sleepy moon,
Can I see you soon?

She was young and slim and beautiful,
my first love,
with skin like licked caramel, and
always smelling, always tasting
like peach candy.  But still,
I sort of envy Bukowski his
300lb *****, the painted leviathan that
swallowed whole his virginity and
broke his bed, before falling snoring asleep
on her wide, sea-creature back, because he
probably learned more from that ugliness
than I ever learned from
beauty.

That said, I envy him more the night
the old dog buried his bone
in six separate gardens,
the dark-haired woman who
sent him a photo of  her
self
reading his book
in the  bath, and the two perfect
blonde Dutch girls his editor found on the great man's lawn
when he called by one evening,
the both of them waiting for Hank to
come home from the track
so they could **** him.

The sky cries kerosine
when it watches us take
our lives and think of
suicide.

It cries kerosine when it
hears us call ourselves
worthless and relapse.

But it also cries tears
of joy the day we get
over ourselves and
pasts.

The day we walk with
our heads held high. The
day we walk with our
hearts full of pride. The
day our sorrows crumble
and die.

The sky sighs as it watches
us believe a little more in
ourselves. As we hold our umbrellas up to protect
our bodies from the fiery
red blazing flames.

And as we walk by the
river side saying apologies
to ourselves for the self
hate and the razor blades
we swallowed and ate after
cutting our own flesh* ~

At the crossroads where time loads its shotgun
and the Sun sheds a tear for the day,
there's a light at the end of the tunnel
but it's going the opposite way.

You see, forgetting you
is not a one time thing
it's a constant daily battle
stop thinking about him
remember the times
he stood you up
remember the times
he broke your heart
remember the things
he said in his anger
remember the way
he left you all alone
remember how
he gave no explanation
oh but remember
the roses he brought you
remember the late night conversations
remember the first time
he told you he loved you
remember the secrets
he confided in you
no, stop
stop
remember what's good for you
remember he's not good for you
remember what you deserve
forget him every day
every morning when you wake up
and your brain wants to bring him up
remember the nights you spent
crying on your bed
remember your best friend
cursing his name
remember your mother
cursing herself for not stopping you
remember your brother
cursing himself for not protecting you
remember the days at the hospital
the pills, the drops, the shots
remember what is best for you
he is not best for you
remember that
and forget him
every year
every month
every week
every day
every second
if that's what it takes