My hands are cold, would you give me your g(love)s?

we accept the love we think we deserve

stay in love, fall in touch

Id rather have cancer than a dishonest heart.
Which isnt being pious. Just practical.
Cancer may cool you, but the others sure to.
Oh, screw it cookie--hand me my guitar and I'll sing you a fado in the most perfect Portugese.


I feel infuriatingly left out--a tugboat in drydock while she, glittery voyager of secure destination, steams down the harbor with whistles whistling and confetti in the air.

Stick around long enough and everyone becomes a parody of themselves (see also: if it could happen to the egyptians it could happen to you).

As Egyptologists cast open tombs they serve as gods like isis welcoming history back to life.
it seems strange to think of the way that the very thing that gives me life, oxygen, tears through these tombs and disintegrates heirlooms that have lain in shadows for thousands of years. youve done this 27 times before, youd think youd get the hang of it by now- a night spent in your room alone realizing how you always change tense mid-thought. If you were at a hotel, youd order room service for two because you don’t want the hotel staff to think you could be this alone. Youre only as old as you feel. Then put a toe tag on me that reads “who cares”. At some point you realize Its all a game of “this” or “that”. now vs. then. "Better off" against "worse for the wear"- you know, id rather be a widow than a divorcee. Maybe that’s just me. I just wanted to feel a part of something. You cant blame me but at the same time you probably should. I sat and stitched this Frankenstein relentlessly but you gave it that final kiss of life. The years are starting to take their toll. The miles show in the form of smile lines around my eyes. Some girls should get fixed like cats. Though I love the way she has memorized a list of canonized books that she tells people are “her favorites”, even though they are pretty much just off of a list of “customers who bought this book also bought” and so on. She watches the history channel and acts like it gives her the license to input “facts” into every phone conversation I ever have. When its late at night she says things like “I feel like im walking on air”, and besides being obvious and derivative I also happen to know its not true. because ive seen the kind of shoes she wears and she always has to take them off if the car is parked too far away. Id hate it but anything sounds okay coming out of her mouth. Youre only still staring because in my mind I am reloading. Or this thing is fucking stuck in the chamber. Stutter. Its on the tip of my tongue. Cant think of a single fucking segue. I wish my ego and my libido would trade places. I wonder how the pharaohs would feel if they realized they never made it across to the other side. They are sitting on the third floor of the natural history museum. Forever. If I die before you I hope they bury you alive with me. In my head that is how I love you.you dont hate me, you hate the part of you that is like me. i cant sit here and ride my flaws until the end. im not sure i am thinking clearly but i just want you to know that i waited on your calls all night- they never came. i just wanted to say i miss you or im sorry or you know something that would have meant something to you. i would have made it poetic and memorable or at least something you could laugh at while drifting off to sleep. always trying to relive the glory days. i dont care how poorly these sentences were constructed or how in the light of day i will wish i had not written them- right now i can only curse the fucking light off of this stupid western city because it wont ever get dark enough for sleep but otherwise how could you guide your way back here?
my head always feels warm right before i pass out, i always worry that there is something wrong and i wont wake up or you know i will. promise me that you wont take anything i ever say too seriously.

dying is what makes life feel so damn important

i only wish i could mean more than the hair raising on your neck or the angel and devil on whichever shoulder you choose. peter pan afternoons in the breeze of the suburbs of chicago. i hope were your mayflower. i hope were your plymouth rock. black magic and all. lets make a pact. it always starts with some small "i" and ends with an apology or "im just seeing the world"- i need to become me. you know what i mean? if i dream, i hope i dream of this.

blue pills / black nights

history has proven that
you can put despair and loneliness on play/repeat and it will go on forever.
and if its loud and bright enough it doesnt matter how much money you have to buy the things you want or how brilliant you are told you are or how the right girls smile at you or how the best cameras flash at you.

it is all you will hear or see.

if i could do this all over i dont know that i would have called anyone at all.

everything reminds me of you. i have to keep this city awake. sleep soon i hope. i only remember the things i planned on saying after i hang up the phone.