Sunbathing in eighty degree heat

Listening to Timeflies' latest album

Reading the works of Diana Gabaldon

Sipping on a perfectly chilled Diet Coke

Smashing an overhead over the fence

Suckling a lime after a tequila shot

Finding rhythm while on the treadmill

Chewing spearmint gum after a meal

Laughing at a sincerely funny joke

Making out with a complete stranger

Jumping while watching a horror film

Meeting up with a best friend for lunch

Baking Christmas cookies for "Santa"

Plumping eyelashes with charcoal mascara

Flying high on a playground swing set

Lighting up a brand new candle

Viewing fireworks on the Fourth of July

Singing in a steaming hot shower

Biting into a honeycrisp apple

Fawning over extremely cliched love scenes

Receiving praise for a job well done

Cuddling underneath a pile of blankets

Watching classic Disney movies

Stretching out ridiculously sore muscles

Typing compelling narratives on my laptop

Provide me more, my darling would say, the;

Roses you sent to me are withered, the;

Oil and sweet spices are washed away with a quick

Shower but only your words remain, so don’t linger! tell me how I am

Everything to you, before the lonely night comes...

You have a smile like suicide

An apocalyptic aftermath mood

I follow you around like a blue ghost

Some people stick to my soul

Like molasses mixed with honey

Mainline my blood with hope

I know this will be the death of me

But what a fucking death it will be

I used to think like you. I used to look for meaning. I used to want things to matter. I used to think that there had to be some greater purpose to my life, to my presence.

But there isn't. Nothing we silly little humans do means anything. None of it matters. Ultimately, nobody cares.

We're all beautifully worthless, you know. Everything that we worry and care too much about, every meticulously planned action and line, all were completely, blissfully unimportant in the end.

In the end, we all die. We are forgotten, if not soon, than eventually.

That idea used to terrify me, it used to make me wonder why I bother doing anything, why I bother placing value in anything.

But eventually I realized the truth: it's liberating. It's liberating not to matter, not to mean anything. Nothing has any inherent meaning, so it's your job to assign meaning. or not to. You can - and  should, I think - do what makes you happy, because that's the only thing you truly control. You should work for yourself, for your interests, because when humans have gone extinct, nobody will remember you anyway.

If you know what I now know, you'd be selfish.

your caustic words

almost got me,

blocked by hand and reflex.

but they cut my fingerprint

and it's begun to fester.

I've started to feel the itch,

wondering what stories

your body would tell

if I filled it with

shotgun-stanzas and smoke.

I think my dot-blot expressions

would make you look beautiful.

so I'm doing this for nature

because I don't think worms

get much art where they live.

I hear it deeper than you do

Lullaby high and well spoken 

A mix of accents coming through

Soft syllables become broken

Tongue enjoys speech, talking too much

But often gets tied, wound, tangled

Round the words that my tongue does touch

Becomes sore, and my words strangled

Though gentle, it can stop a crowd

My words project with convinction

When I want my voice to be loud

But they're best on paper fiction

Where my inked words can flow freely

That's what I treasure most, really

I covet the breath you take, immersed in the fallacy that dreams you paint were more than a way to omit me.

I demand the glances you steal, wistful for nights of sweet starry kisses that never curtailed. 

The fervor in which my lungs respire the air you thieve, as I whisper your name, splits the column of the pedestal I put you on.

There are secrets of his body you know - the curve of his collarbone, the weight of his hips on yours, the way his fingertips write stories into your stomach - that you probably shouldn't. His lips always taste like something unfamiliar, his eyes always looking a little bit beyond you as if there was someone else, and you know with all the ache in your chest that there probably is. Loving, you have learned, is really just saying goodbye, and lying next to him has always felt like a farewell. 

Why do I laugh instead of cry?

when things turn to dust,

when I've forgotten how to speak,

or when I've cut myself open,

when I'm barely able to see,

when I think I might not last,

or when I know things look bleak,

when my tears never go uninterrupted,

when they're coated in a roaring laugh,

why do I always manage to look up,

and stop myself from feeling so sad?