I Like You

I like the way you listen
to the way he spits his game. 
I like the way you think
that I’m a boy who’s just the same.

I like the way you fell
for him just once, but now you see
that I’m a boy who’s just the same;
you’d never fall for me.

I like the way your heart
still lies controlled within his hand.
I like the way you still think
that I couldn’t understand

the pain he made you feel, and
that you still think you are free.

I like how you’ve allowed your pain
to blind yourself from me.

The Final Front

Sometimes I wonder what people think of me. No one ever really says bad things about who I am. Maybe it's because I'm sweet. So sweet that no one has anything bad to say about me. But I know that isn't the case.

It's because I'm so sweet people feel bad about the negatives they see in me. They feel bad, because they know I'm just a sweet, innocent boy, and even if they end up doing it anyway, they don't want to hurt me.

But that's just a front.

So then there's the rest. They know me for who I am, the lies I never tell, the truth no one ever cares to see. They understand that deep, dark side of me so well that they hate it. They can see me for the terrible person I truly am inside, and they know that my twisted, rationally immoral, logical mind contemplates and understands my own decisions too well to be dismayed.

I'm too corrupted to be hurt.

But they don't know that it's only another front.

There's an innocence inside me that I can't describe. That few people can believe. That I have yet to even understand. Almost everyday, it kills me slowly from the inside, as I derive more and more pain from my thoughts and observations. It is an innocence of hurt, that I can't stop or explain or rationalize, and it flows endlessly from a constant source... a source I dedicate my entire life to identifying.

Maybe this is a front as well. If it were, I wouldn't know. Sometimes I wonder what the final front will be. If it will ever come. But I know it doesn't matter. I'm waiting for a train. But I don't know where I hope it will take me.

Sliding

Footsteps carry on
and leave their imprints in the snow.
I call for their attention
but they never want to know.
I’m looking for
the scattered pieces
of my shattered soul.
Alone,

I’m sliding down the rabbit hole.

And I Can’t Stop that Feeling Anymore…

the world feels like a cold place
and the lights at night feel dim,
and empty,
and unsympathetic.
but even when the lights are bright,
and even in those lively nights,
when the lights are on but
nobody’s home,
it only just feels
that much more alone.

and i can’t stop that feeling anymore,
when it comes,
i succumb, and those
dim lights haunt the depths of my imagination
my vision of this world, tainted
by shadows and dark,
terrible things that i
don’t want to understand anymore.

dark things, that you once lit up for me.
shadows you dispelled
with a light that burned brighter than any
rationality i could ever come up with
to make myself feel better…

but now your shattered,
scattered
flame
only burns
everything

around me

inside of me.

Message in a Bottle

Looks like I actually have something to post on tumblr for once.

Today was a good day. I haven't had many lately, really.

It starts off pretty shitty, actually. It's a minimum day and no one knows what to do. EJ drives downtown for no reason, and Damon, Monico, EJ and I all get out of the car and walk. We walk down the pier to the beach when I step on a massive piece of gum and sit down to scrape it off.

We start talking, and talking, and I get the idea to try skipping some rocks. So Monico and I climb down the rocks and start throwing some down into the ocean. EJ and Damon are messing with weird sea urchins and things when Damon finds a 40 oz empty alcohol bottle.

Message in a bottle? EJ says.

Monico and Damon are down. I'm, honestly, not. It seems stupid, a waste of time, and taking away from our productive and deep conversation. But the guys are into it, so Damon pulls out some paper and I give Monico my pen and he starts to write.

He writes about the world, and California. He writes about Obama, and the economy, and Twitter. He writes about earthquakes, and Google, and himself, and as he writes, I'm intrigued; what if someone actually found it? It is a thick glass bottle. And drift tends to get washed ashore. What if one day someone finds this bottle and reads our message— how would it feel?

And with that I was in. I take the letter as Mico finishes and I write. I try to be funny. I make jokes about situations the reader could be in. I write a small Japanese segment just in case it floats the wrong way. I tell them how much uglier I am than Monico, but I ask them to find me if I'm alive, and whether they still use emotes.

:]

Damon and EJ both write their segments— half a page, each of us— and then we all write down our information. I'm not sure what the others write, but I write my full name, and my Gmail, because I'm confident Google will have taken over the world by then. I write my blog as well, so that if I am dead, they can read all of my inferior poetry that may, by then, may be mistaken as good somehow due to language evolution.

We tear some fishing line off a drift cloth laying on the nearby rocks, roll up the letter, and tie it. Damon cleans the bottle out and we insert the letter and close the cap as tight as we can. Then we walk to the end of the pier.

Monico reaches back, and he hurls the bottle out as far as he can

and as it flies into the ocean, glistening in the sunlight, I can only think that maybe the greatest plan really is nothing.

Just finished up our letter

Walking down the pier rocks

Bottle's on the right! :]

Warm Heart

The winter sparkled across the quiet city. The sun, setting in a glowing red arc in the distance, seemed to cast an aura of tranquility across the soft, white snow. A late bus made it’s way through town, its tracks imprinting on the frosty street.

Emily looked out the bus window. She loved the snow. She loved the way it glistened in the afternoon, in those rare moments the sun came out for a perfect balance of sunlight and snow clouds. Sometimes she even thought she lived for it; as though the entire year were but a payment for the sweet, rewarding winter.

When the bus arrived at Emily’s apartment, she almost missed the stop, preoccupied with her thoughts. She got off the bus and made her way up the stone steps to her building. The evening porch light flickered on as she reached for the door.

She made her way up the stairs to her apartment, the way she always did. There was an elevator, but Emily never used it. It was boring, dissatisfying. It seemed unstable to her, not knowing what floors it could stop at, or who could interrupt the peaceful ride up to her home.

Emily watched the snow falling outside her window. It mystified her— there was so much, and it seemed to come from nowhere. And she knew that, someday soon, it would all be gone, almost magically, only to come back the next year. On time, every time. It was a soothing consistency in her troubling world.

The winter comes back.

The winter always comes back.

Emily thought about this as she crawled into bed. Closing her eyes, she repeated the simple fact to herself. It resonated through her mind as she slowly, happily slipped away.

He always comes back.

* *   * *   * *

The first time he left, Emily gave him a bottle of snow. He knew what it meant to her. He knew how much she loved it, so he took it, kindly and understandingly, but at the same time he seemed confused.

It’ll melt, he said, tentatively.

I know. But there’s more. You can come back and get more. She looked at him intently, her eyes sparkling.

Okay, he said, I will.

And he did— every winter, year after year. Just like the snow. But his consistency was more than just soothing to her. It was as though his visits were a sort of retribution for leaving, but she never considered it that way. He never wanted to leave. He had to, he told her, and she knew it was true, but that didn’t seem to help at all.

I can’t stay here anymore, he told her one fateful day. Emily knew he couldn’t, yet knowing he couldn’t, and knowing it wasn’t either of their faults, only helped her as much as knowing it was true. It didn’t help— nothing did. She cried, and he told her how much he loved her, but that didn’t help either.

But he told her he would always come back, and he did. It didn’t seem like much, but somehow, that made everything better. She looked forward to his visits, maybe even more than she looked forward to the winter.

She didn’t really know what she would do without him. And yet, she did. She knew exactly what she would do without him. She didn’t know what she would do with him. He brought her life remarkable instabilities— but she loved them, because they were his, and he was wonderful. It had been so long, they had become a part of her life.

As long as Emily could remember, he was always there. In elementary school he would stand by the slide as she went down.

If you fall I’ll catch you, he told her.

She remembered thinking of what a silly thing that was. How stupid the boy must have been. But she also still remembered the strange, permanent sense of security it gave her. Emily knew she wouldn’t fall off that slide, but it was as though there were hidden dangers she had yet to learn of, that she knew he’d protect her from. She teased him for it, but somehow, she never wanted to go down the slide when he wasn’t around.

She hadn’t been down a slide in a while.

* *   * *   * *

A bright, white light streamed through Emily’s window and onto her bed. Squirming, she got up and looked out the window at the snowy ground below. She smiled.

Emily took her time picking her outfit for the day. White and pink, she decided, strapping on her pink snow boots. As she walked out the door, she threw on her thick, insulated winter jacket.

It was a frigid day, but Emily was happy. Even the cold air seemed to warm her heart, because she knew she was on her way to meet her warmth once again. Smiling, she crossed the street from her apartment and called for a taxi, her winter boots clacking on the frosty asphalt.

Town Square please, she told the driver. She’d never said those words before, she realized. She was always too young for a taxi— her mother made her walk. It was okay then, she didn’t mind, and she wouldn’t have minded this time either.

Emily couldn’t wait to see him. In her head she imagined what he would look like. She imagined conversations between them, playing scene after scene through her mind until, she realized, she had arrived. She paid the driver, too excited to remember to thank him, and stepped out into the open air.

The square was magnificent. Soft white snow blanketed the ground, benches, and trees around the area. It wasn’t too thick, the way it was in some places. It was just the right amount, Emily thought: enough for her to get lost in, and at the same time, enough to forget about when she needed to. Holiday decorations were just starting to be put up, and there were clumps of mistletoe tied to the light posts.

Emily looked across the shining, white square to the center, in which stood a large, ornate tree, covered in bright, yellow lights. At the top sat a massive silver star, and at the bottom—

Emily’s vision blurred as tears came to her eyes, and before she knew it she was running as fast as she could. When the boy saw her coming he braced himself as she jumped on top of him.

Jesus Emily, he said sarcastically, you could at least be a little enthusiastic.

She laughed.

I missed you, she said.

I missed you too. He smiled.

They walked around the square together, planning and reminiscing and Emily tried not to think too much of what she knew would inevitably come next. He told her about life away from her, and she told him how everyone else was so not like him. He told her about the drive there, and she told him about her new job, and school. They laughed and hugged and took pictures.

It’s snowing a lot, this year, he said.

Yeah, it is. I hope it wasn’t too hard for you to get here…

Oh no, I didn’t mean it like that. It was worth it, he said laughing. I just thought you might be cold.

You make me warm, she told him. And it was true.

She enjoyed herself, and by the end of the day, she felt renewed, and satisfied. Everything was as she’d hoped it would be. As the night clouds started to roll in, Emily knew it was almost time to go. It made her sad, the way it always did, but this time was different, somehow, she could feel it. The boy looked at her, grabbed her hand, and walked her over to a bench, where they sat down.

I have to tell you something, he said.

Emily’s heart stopped. How she knew what he was going to say, she didn’t know. But she knew.

The snowfall seemed to slow as he moved his body closer to hers. He wrapped his arms around her and sat, silently, for several minutes.

She looked at him. The tear on his face mirrored hers.

He looked up.

I can’t come back here anymore, he said.

She looked down at her feet. The cold air felt numbing to her core.

…I know.

* *   * *   * *

The winter left, eventually. Emily sat outside on the steps to her apartment, everyday, watching as the snow disappeared, little by little. The sun rose and its glowing red arc spread its warmth across the city, and as the last of the snow melted away, she wondered just how much of it would return the next year.

Monico

Deceit

Oh Fallen Angel, come to me,

and fly me to my path.

One-winged Angel, fluttering

the one wing you have left.

 

I need your help now, desperately,

though you’re not at your best;

I know that you can help me

with the one wing you have left.

 

I’m helpless, here alone;

I only ask your healing kiss.

You’ve helped me once before,

and that was no more wrong than this.

 

So come to me, I’m innocent,

despite the wing you lack.

You’ll never see the wing of yours

I hold behind my back.

 

A memory, from your last plight—

your last, selfless act of good.

I know I should be thankful,

but I know you know I should.

Oblivion

The nights are getting longer...
one.
two. 
three. 
four.
and the line between night and day slips slowly further into oblivion.