i wish i could remember every moment of
this life, she said,
as she pressed her palms into greener grass,
morning dew soaking into her faded jeans.

(please, she whispered into his hair,
i just want to be your everything)

but these pieces aren't complete, he pulled her
towards the other tree,
and they carved their initials jaggedly
into the trunk of the tree, well out of
heaven's reach.

it's beautiful, she thought, but i need
those
answers.
because she knew that at night,
sin and virtue become one, and they had
absolutely nothing.

so last tuesday, while we were making
wishes out of paper airplanes, and
collages from forgotten stories,
she was on the couch, building their love on
last century's old polaroids.
she had memories preserved on paper from
another world and those
torn pieces of film were her only
window to what had been--

because photographs are justice for
what our minds don't remember,
but sometimes (somedays) in some
cases, she thinks,
we'd rather not remember anything
at all.

she's leaning against the dumpster in
the back alley of his street, thirteen feet below
his grimy bathroom window.
they're like romeo&
juliet in this urban city,
trapped in dreams of love
and tragedy.

just yesterday, she scuffed the gum off her
converses, smiled through
his latest off-key rendition of
the backstreet boys, wishing for
a fairytale ending in her
metallic, overdue city.

it is love, she tells herself,
when he walks past her and they
touch shoulders. he gives her a stranger's
apology and smiles kindly.

hey, have we met before?
(maybe in a different lifetime.)

but such classics are engraved forever.

she fell in love on a
thursday with flowers behind
her back. there's stock photography
on the walls and polaroid memories
in her pockets as she
sips on her latest
adrenaline rush,
cigarette between two fingers and
romance novels under her tongue.
you and i are meant to.
be.

the sea is washing away all traces
left of us, baby, because
we're taking a train beyond
our last stop,
caution to the wind and fear in our fingertips--
this is your sweetest poison, boy,
&most definitely your last.

[the beginning]

Angels fall when we're not watching.

You see, our story is not that simple. There is a fundamental gap in our memories we cannot bridge. We dream of wings and feathers, and wake up to blank walls. Sing of heaven on earth and close our eyes before sinners. Touch the hearts of those we love and break the hearts of those we abandon in our haste to save ourselves from reality. We are selfish, you see. We are human.

Sometimes, so are they.

i like those rainbows, she whispers
in his ear, and he
looks up to seven shades of
black and white--beautiful in
monochrome;
in her dreams they toss red roses on
body bags
and watch the thorns rip through
plastic.

he laces his fingers with hers,
watches the smile playing on her lips,
and tucks the blankets tighter around
her sleeping form.
sweet dreams, he whispers
and leaves her with her
favorite nightmare.

there's only static now.

i wish i could write things that
beautiful, she says
to blank walls and imaginary posters.

some people paint the sky in pinks and oranges until
they can't see the difference between
dawn and
sunset.
others shade forest paths of
black and white
onto beautiful wax paper with
ink. to watch the way
parallels blend into perpendiculars--
something profound.

you'd read me your pseudo-poetry in the
heat of summer behind a rose bush, and we'd
prick our fingers, rip our shirts
in a rush of adrenaline untraceable.
there are greater things out there, i'd say,
and imagine wind carrying such wise words
to that neighborhood kid down the block,
but such philosophies get stifled on particularly
hot
days.

sunday afternoons in empty classrooms are
better on wintry days.
we'd dangle our legs over plastic desks and
read the secrets splayed
on the side, under the surface, next to that
piece of gum--
secrets grow like ivy vines here, long and twisted and
very much alive.
in another universe, the table says but
never finishes the thought.

in another universe, we'd
love like puppets do,
no strings attached, and a little less geometrical
because that's the only way we'd be able to fly.

you are not here, but
i am.

it’s just butterflies in your stomach, he says,
and leaves out tragic details of
a love that was never meant to be.
on those days, she stacked her fear on empty Kleenex boxes;
only yesterday, she threw out the batteries of her clock,
the ticktocktick seconds of his absence a reminder of
her fairytale romance, the epitome of
broken promises.

it’s raw and dirty and beautiful, like something out of a movie
only this time the pills aren't placebos.

you'd think it's nice the way he
wakes you up at 4am, tousled hair and
empty eyes and the palm of his hand against
your wrist.
you'd head for the horizon in
the dim light of the dawn,
full of cliches and euphemisms so that maybe
those secret tragedies can pass you by
in return for some unreachable truth
that only his music can hide.
you'd think maybe you love him love him (not)
because he tells someone else
secrets that he can't hide anyway.

those lukewarm tragedies, you'd think,
should be cold by now.

they have the most unlikely metaphors
for broken hearts, even those that
dangle on their sleeves
like secret stories whispered under
the covers at night
and maybe the daybreak confessions of
a drug addict—
in the end they don’t realize that it’s all
empty words and too much prose,
and that they’ve already lost their hearts in
this clichéd battle.

theirs was not a dramatic love story,
nothing like the soap operas
on t.v.
there were no fireworks, celebrations,
(or congratulations)
just a simple touch of fingers,
lips to lips,
soft.
and.
warm—
theirs was not a hollywood romance,
but it could be the quiet blooming of a flower
in spring, still hidden from the world,
just two boys who want to be
together.

0.

she writes with a permanent pen
chapters of a life-story on her
arm and when she runs
outofspace she
writes along the curve of her long
body and around the ankles
where the neat lettering swirls into a condensed
circle and protrudes when she traces the ink over
the bone;
she takes care to cover her fingers in sharp
pen marks in a soft pattern with the words
notre amour, c’est éternel
but forgets that it is all just a (life)story played out
in her mind while she finishes this pen and reaches for
the next with childlike fingers;

1.

he is the boy around the corner with
dirt in his broken fingernails because he
chews on them to try to stop
smoking; (she writes)

with a most pale complexion and dark brown eyes that
looks right through you--
with dirty blond hair that trail messily over his face
and hang uncropped
over his ears;

he is dressed in a torn, faded yellow tshirt with dark brown
stains that dot the fabric and
jeans, frayed
at the ends;

sometimes i walk past (she writes) and he
is perched carelessly against the rusty lamp post in
the corner with a cigarette in-between his
fingers and ashes at his feet--
he inhales nicotine into his lungs and
breathes out sin so beautifully

2.

he is there at 6am, translucent and alone under the pale light
of the morning, features covered in a haze of smoke
and cigarette ashes falling, falling
falling--
like bits and pieces of a fairytale untold,
hers are the steps that don't exist,
it is the middle of an unknown battle,
bodies and body bags and no survivals
except for the single white lily that no eyes can see,
tucked away among the chaos and one petal
less; blood-stained. dismembered--

cigarette embers fade under her feet
and suddenly he is
so clear, so close;
hooded eyes. long lashes. chapped lips.
“hey baby” he says, but his lips never move,
“what's a dainty little doll like you doing here?”
she thinks it's only her imagination,
but he takes her hand and
runs dirty fingers over her
knuckles, kisses her like he means it,
a fairytale of lovemetrue mixed with stale cigarette smoke
sweet on his tongue but numb
on hers;

her white dress hooks on a crooked nail
jutting from the lamp post and
rips.