i could photograph the sky for the rest of my life
over
and over
and over

we stand in the center of the bridge, raising Montrose over 59.
i'm on your shoulders, singing songs in Spanish and waking the neighbors.

you let me press my thighs against your neck, your cheeks
(it's not the first time)
you let my voice raise upwards, my hands rest on your thick black hair.

cars race beneath us in oblivion, and we're holding our breath still.
it's a funny thing, relationships,
as each day goes past, it's easier to see beauty as ordinary
and "day to day" becomes this vacuum for the beauty of this chaos.

but to this day my tongue craves the salt of your skin, and
to this day, in self preservation, we hold up our walls of pride and speculation,
we act like we are in transience even when lying still
only thing i hear is your breath, moving through the curtains like freefalling light.

outside there is a man playing piano, and he has composed our sonatas of bee stings and serenades of loneliness

you are the kite flyer,
and you roll up my string carefully, delicately
and more often than not, you release me to the wind

i find my bliss
and i shall not be cold
for inside me is the sun.

on valentine's day, the air was cold. i could feel the asphalt beneath us curling beneath its skin, holding its breath. the wind crept between the windows and left its fingerprints on my cheeks.

you took me out, hoping to get on a ferris wheel.

and there was glass on the cold asphalt, protesting under your tires,
there was a phone call and i listened to your patience thinning below your voice.

but you took me anyways,
and we watched the fish, and the water, and the cheesy jazz duo,
we slowed down
i could feel the ordinary
its breath on our neck
its delight in my chest

and today, i strengthen my eyes and cheekbones against the palate of your hands


perhaps when we sleep our souls heave out their anxiety and sigh out their fears. my dreams stitch together with wants and desperations

i miss that which has not appeared
you hold me closer in the mornings, but i'm not sure if it's out of cold or out of love.

sometimes we drink in architecture while walking under arches of light

"I give away moments of my body or my heart each day.
And yet there are pieces of me I have never, ever let go.

It's the second realization, not the first, that makes me vulnerable."

- tm

"I don't need a synagogue," you said, "I can pray inside my body." You slept without covering yourself. I couldn't tell departure from arrival. You spoke inside my twice averted words -- you yelled when you opened the doors, and opened each door in silence.

Someone else is on this page, writing. I attempt to move my fingers faster than she.


-Ilya Kaminsky

i've had nightmares recently

i wake up crying, but not sweating.

it's a weird transition to the Awake world. i'm not sure if i'm living it or dreaming it either.