do you wanna lose our heads tonight?
we can regret it in the morning
but that's the morning and this is right now
and it is dark and beautiful and you're smiling
and all i would rather do right now is put my hand on your knee and finish these drinks
yeah we can slip under the covers and be consumed by the warmth
and if it is okay can i hold your hand until the sun comes up?
can i brush up against your skin so mine isn't alone for once?
can i pretend for just tonight your body is mine and mine yours?
let's lose our heads tonight
you and i

my mother always said
"don't fall in love with a poet"
they pretend to love you
but what they really love
is writing about loving you
you are mere words to them
feelings cheapened by a page,
dusty grey typewriters,
and many unfinished drafts
of lovers both old and new,
you are the question mark,
but not the answer,
they are searching for ?
person unidentified: mystery
the page wanderer,
each poem a missing
person poster to cover their
bedroom walls.
they cannot love something
that is in their head
poets are the loneliest of
all people, my mother said.
they write to immortalize
what has long passed.
to live within their words,
but not reality,
lost souls writing suicide notes
and proclaiming it art.

The same t-shirt
The same guitar
The same long face with black beard
The same words
Forty years and the same
We are all young
We are all old.

i’ve run out of words to say,
you know,
i am wrung dry of poetry,
heart just a little too buried.
see, instead, everything is just

heavy, heavy, heavy.

all closed-up throat and dragging feet and burning eyes.
building under collapse,
empty tank of gas,
edges too rusted for use.

and still—
still. the heart shakes.
beats wildly.
(like hummingbird wings)
the eyes gone empty,
but stay open. awake.
(owls in the night)

look. await me.
i can stay alive for another morning.