Polarity.

Why is it that one moment I can be perfectly comfortable alone at night, walking along the neon pipelines of a city feeling infinite and desired and overflowing with such free love, and the next all I can think of is quietly, loyally sitting by someone's side in the warm, aureate room my future builds in my mind?
There is no balance between the extremes in the life I've constructed for myself. It's all angles, or better-- magnets, eternally repelling each other. I can't live between magnets.
Where so much love exists, hate is invited. I just don't want to end up hating myself. Not again.

And It's All Mathematics

So much exposure to a musician had me fascinated. Whether it was the way he paused tentatively with his fingers above the piano keys to mindlessly consider the next piece of the song, always hitting the exact chord afterward, or the number of times his expression could change throughout the duration of one guitar riff.
Furthermore, it was the proximity of such ability that had me, to be so close to a mind that could create music in its subconscious. A mind that didn't control. Although it was a love that I'd never seen so close, between him and the instruments, something he said in conversation really took me, after he'd been playing for hours on end; "He'll go through torture just to get attention...just like me. Why do you think I play guitar? I mean, my fingers hurt."

Up.

And I'm looking up, filling up, oxygen all in my blood. Blood rushing. I feel good tonight, nervous and beautiful and nearly celestial. I could be Venus except I'm alive. I'm alive.
You got it right saying human interaction is like matches, the ignition, the brilliant flame and the inevitability of a burning out. I can feel it still, the heat of the matches. The smoke rises up.

You Know, It's a Funny Thing.

I'm stuck in a 1946 mindset. I don't have much to say; I only want to be quiet and clever and coy like Bogart's co-star. I wish I was called a name like Lucille or Vivian. I'm tired beyond sleep and seeing in color is no good. I'd be happier in black and white. I'd be happier if I could dress up and have someone take me out.
Hope of being saved fades into the glare of late hours. Nobody can actually do anything to help anyone these days, ask around.
There's an uneasiness about tonight that's got my heart going.
There's a darkness about tonight that's got my breath held.

It's Easy Breathing Today, Ladies and Gentlemen.

It would seem that I get everything I want,
(just not all at the same time, not even close.)

But I won't push my luck, won't even think about it again 'til the rain is falling hard against the window panes and seeping, flooding the floor.

Born from Basement Tears

I took my time washing the dishes and cleaning the kitchen, half-mindful, half-listening to a National Geographic program on the television. I worked knowing that if not for you, I wouldn't be in the place I was, physically or more figuratively.
The most important thing is to learn not to be asked, but to do for the sake of what is kind. It's not that hard , you told me.
So much of what we've been is blurred around the edges. I'm so glad that last night I could have an hour in the clear.

As Of Yet, Nameless.

I adore my typewriter.

Dizzy Again.

The world should not be spun by fear. Please don't force me to summarize our conversations into a single-sentenced threat. If I could be brave enough to tell something to your face, world, that would be it. Stop already.
Words like sacrifice and limitation don't do me any good, I'm sorry to say.
I'm sorry to say that I'm the one spinning. Habitual lies, mindful lies, protective lies, useless lies.
Lies are as much protection as the glass windows on the twenty-sixth floor. There could be a falling out, and I could get sucked out from my airplane seat into the night
at thirty-thousand feet.

Window Ledges.

Sitting at a stone-cold window ledge, running down nineteen empty flights of stairs, folding paper cranes, squinting with the sun, cross-legged and flying over the railroad tracks, shivering in the February morning, noon, night.
It felt good to get to know you, both of you. It felt good to laugh.

Somnolence or Turbulence.

If I wake up from a dream and I've opened my eyes and may as well not have in all the darkness--there's no relief. Is it possible that I'm only capable of love in my dreams?
If I wake up, I can only hold on to fragments of it, the frayed edges, rough to the touch and weathered (in my mind, Tibetan prayer flags in slight mountain wind and rain)and somehow burning to the touch: small scale rug-burn.
Tangible memory, along with all my words have been melting onto a single paint palette. I try to think back and get covered in paint. Blue paint, watered down and washed over everything, smudging your sideways eyes.
If I wake up and there is a call for convention anything, let me shut my eyes. Let me protect myself from behind the twists of sheets. Let me overheat with my own guilt until sleep is all I am.