Your fucking dimples

I want to pick the roses that blossom
from the intersecting veins on
the right side of your neck

your eyes match the color of the dust
that gathers between the stars

glee like white wine pours down my throat when I hear your voice, pools in my lungs

I can’t tell you how badly
I want to touch the tips of my fingers
to yours
how badly I want to count
every vein, every hair, every
wrinkle by your eyes from your smile


I Should Have Gotten High This Weekend

I’m only trying to find me when I trace sidewalks with my fingernails

I don’t know why I talked to her today but I needed something to get me by the dreary turn of the wheel

and I wanted to feel real even when I’m not blasting John Barrowman in my ears

I don’t feel anything unless it has to do with him

I have the weirdest feeling I won’t live long or I won’t get by

all I want to do is write fanfiction but I can’t and I also want to walk every street until I find a girl who will grant me freedom from my damnation

I want to fall asleep in the arms of this man in my earbuds but God still has hold of one foot and I can’t shake him loose and I don’t even think John can free me, much less a girl on the street

Sicah was always meant to be my friend

I only need to stop talking about myself

It Really Doesn’t Make Any Sense

No, listen, it’s like all my happiness is growing from the center of your collarbone, and I don’t have any idea what to say when people ask why I love you so much except that when sunlight illuminates the specks of dust in the air, I recognize your dimples and the pores of your skin and somehow you sleep next to me at night, and the feeling I get when I wake up after enough sleep is the same feeling I get when I run across pictures of you.