She stands beside me, stands away,   

the vague indifference

of her dreams. Dreaming, to go on,   

and go on there, like animals fleeing   

the rise of the earth. But standing   

intangible, my lust a worked anger

a sweating close covering, for the crudely salty soul.

Then back off, and where you go? Box of words   

and pictures. Steel balloons tied to our mouths.   

The room fills up, and the house. Street tilts.   

City slides, and buildings slide into the river.   

What is there left, to destroy? That is not close,   

or closer. Leaning away in the angle of language.   

Pumping and pumping, all our eyes criss cross

and flash. It is the lovers pulling down empty structures.   

They wait and touch and watch their dreams   

eat the morning.

—Do you understand that understanding is impossible?

—I do.

                                               shame

 

Every single night

I endure the flight

of little wings of white-flamed

Butterflies in my brain

These ideas of mine


Percolate the mind


Trickle down the spine


Swarm the belly, swelling to a blaze

That’s when the pain comes in

Like a second skeleton


Trying to fit beneath the skin


I can’t fit the feelings in

Every single night’s alright with my brain

What’d I say to her

What’d I say it to her

What does she think of me

That i’m not what I ought to be

That i’m what I try not to be

It’s got to be somebody else’s fault

I can’t get caught

If what I am is what I am, cause I does what I does

Then brother, get back, cause my breast’s gonna bust open

The rib is the shell and the heart is the yolk yoke and

I just made a meal for us both to choke on

Every single night’s a fight with my brain

I just want to feel everything

So i’m gonna try to be still now

Gonna renounce the mill a little while and

If we had a double-king-sized bed

We could move in it and i’d soon forget

That what I am is what I am cause I does what I does

And maybe i’d relax, let my breast shot bust open


My heart’s made of parts of all that surround me


And that’s why the devil just can’t get around me

Every single night’s alright, every single night’s a fight

And every single fight’s alright with my brain


I just want to feel everything


I just want to feel everything


I just want to feel everything


I just want to feel everything

my world was calling yours
its own, forever

If I wait to fall in love with someone, I may never experience love; that's why I've decided to fall in love with the idea of love, even if it sounds lonesome as fuck, I do not care about it. It probably won't disappoint as much as someone I might not even love but for whose kisses I've longed for so long.

So many love stories I'd love to live in to later realize I'm not even in the right lane.

I want Anaïs Nin and Henry Miller, I want Zelda and Scott Fitzgerald.
I want to make up russian novels whenever I gaze upon my lover's eyes.
I want Sylvia Plath's heartache over Ted Hughes and I want someone to be tormented by heartache the same way I am.
I long for subtle touches and never-ending embraces, I want long breaks of dawn and twilights, I want moon eclipses and heartbreak wishes.
I want Franny Brawne and John Keat's devotion,
I want Jaime Sabines and Josefa Rodríguez,

Retrieving from love sounds like a better path instead of ricocheting through Nabokov's lusted ways in which I'm horribly and tremendously acquainted.

Hoping for love is like waiting for oceans to not carry knowledge of thousands of worlds.