the stories of lovers

i was the right girl,
for all the wrong reasons.
he couldn't give me up,
always shooting up,
savored every drop,
...then dropped me.

i was the right girl,
for all the wrong reasons.
thought he could hold back,
possibly throw me back,
stole what he didn't have,
then stole my heart.

i was the right girl,
for all the wrong reasons.
i could never leave.
he forced me to believe,
that he'd always be around
...until he wasn't.

   i was the right girl,
   for a short period of time
   in which it took to escape
   what once was your life.

   i was the right girl,
   perhaps honestly so,
   never thoughtfully so,
   for all the wrong reasons.

recollect

we were on the roof overlooking 2nd street while the wind was carefully caressing our backs. after hours of words that were meant to be lyrics and drinks that should have never started, we just smiled silently. that was always when i knew to pull back. once the laughing would stop and the gazing began, i'd guard up. that very moment was the last time you would ask.
could we truthfully start this? could we invest in longevity and publicize our writing's muse? could we wake to each other and know our goodbyes would be shorter? could we start being vulnerable and make a life out of this piano's chords?
the answer was always no.
two self destructive creatures could never last long enough to not burn down the city. i didn't fear our differences but knew too well our similarities. our taste for darkness was too elegant; our love of selves was too demanding.
"i just thought that you should know, it's never one thing at all."
and in moments where i would unfailingly turn back to you, i have since then refused.
you always said to trust your gut.

unnecessary invitation

let us speak truth through the movement of our bodies,
for we can no longer claim to be victims of what we ourselves manifest.
allow the space between us to evaporate, as your body's temperature ceases to rest.
oh what gorgeous creatures we have hidden within;
away from those who claimed to have conquered our sins.

we merely surrender to each other, each with a ritual of our own.
i surrender my words and the sound of my voice;
you surrender your strength and the width of your shoulders.
oh what gorgeous creatures we have hidden away,
what careless things have led us astray.

take my hand in the light of the moon, for only she can unite this pair.
allow my body to cover your reflection, so you don't give us away in the light of day.
recite your days through the motion of rotation; arriving again where we left off yesterday.

oh what creatures of adventure you and i; too faithful, but in the shade of grey.
we lose ourselves in this nocturnal act, but speak of nothing in the time of day.
so keep my hand, sweet sinner, locked inside your thoughts.
and forgive me for all the trouble, yesterday has caused.

and unlike the times before,

from yesterday comes tomorrow
yesterday to tomorrow

promises

when night arrives,

i promise to love you.

as soon as the stars come out,

i promise you my lips.

when the sun falls, i assure you,

you have my heart.

it is only within these short hours however; 

for during the day i fear the fragile state of my emotions, 

in the arms of someone else. 

we are in an eternal cycle of lessons missed and lessons learned. the words so easily remain the same and one would never know the difference. there's a vicious pattern of self destruction that masks itself in daily routines, thoughts, and emotions. yet, it's after destruction that certain beauty presents itself. we either break the cycle, or we embrace our mess and the beauty already within. 

original poem

october 10, 2012

cuando la noche llegue

es cuando prometo amarte

en cuanto las estrellas salgan

te garantizo mis labios

cuando el sol caiga

te aseguro mi corazón

pero solo por esas cuantas horas

porque es durante el dia que temo la fragilidad de mis emociones

en las manos de alguien más. 

apple picking

how did you know?
how could you have possibly seen my lips in such a shade of red, years ahead of our lips departing? the hopeless romantic with blue hair and torn vans wrote everything down. he wrote stories of love and loss and of an endless search for our souls' true partners. he played every chord with purpose and direction, though i didn't see it back then, nor do i think he did either.

i hope your dreams have continued to manifest themselves in truth. i hope you know the extent of such claims and poems; of such beautifully written passages and chords.

[can you write out salvation, sweet love?]

he used to write about an apple tree standing tall and alone. about my shoes that matched the color of the fruit and my lips the color of the juiciest of them all; but I hadn't even started painting my lips yet.
he wrote of bruises and fruit with damaged skin. words of dissatisfaction and disinterest in what was already fallen or within a hand's reach. of the need to find an apple the color of my lips.

well they're indeed red now, sweet boy. and i have climbed in search of that very apple with an almost complete disregard to my fear of heights. i have fallen abruptly but not at all how i imagined. my mouth drips with sweet fruit juice and my hands and chest remain sticky with love and joy. my heart calls out and continuously gets answered and met with love. from here, i'll pick up the writing.