I haven't updated this in a long, long time

I'm moving here, if anyone cares. I'll post soon, pinky promise. 

I tried to write a poem about you on my Ipod Touch while sitting on my best friend’s couch today

A poem about what it felt like to say your name and talk about you to mutual acquaintances

All casual and noncommittal

Like my organs weren’t rearranging themselves and my heart wasn’t crawling somewhere near my tearducts

And my lungs migrating towards my abdomen

And like my fingertips weren’t itching to brush against or near your skin

And I wanted to say how your name tastes kind of sweet and perfect

And how you make me round my lips and hold my vowels and tap my tongue near the roof of my mouth

Just so

And how your name is more a sigh and a confession than a word

And how my best friend rolls his eyes when I say it

Because maybe, Sarai, he feels the same way

Maybe even probably he’s into you, too

But you need to get on that

You need to tell him

Because at what point do you stop being a sexual prospect?

At what point are you just a digital friend?

And I wanted to write about how I haven’t wanted to write about you

That I’ve been letting Walmart composition books collect dust

Because this feels familiar but in the bad way

Because when my roommate asked me if I had a boyfriend, I answered that no

But that I basically did

In that I wouldn’t accept romantic offers from anyone else

And it kinda reminded me of telling my maybe-into-me French housemate that I didn’t have a boyfriend a year ago

Only I basically did

Because that other boy was all up in my mind and making my heart flutter

Even though there were no definites

Even though it was all confusing and lonely and unfulfilling

I thought it was best to continue in my monogamous obsessions

And I wanted to say that it really wasn’t fair that I had mirror situations

As if God or the universe or some impersonal force was trying to teach me a lesson about the world

And how I interact with it

And how I repeated actions—even unconsciously

In deciding that I liked your skin and your smiles and your brain and the peeks of your soul

And I wanted to write all of this

And maybe even put it online

And maybe even acknowledge that I fall in the same way for all of the boys

And I listen to all of the same songs by all of the same artists to make sense of the way my heart races

And I tried to while sitting on my best friend’s couch and glancing briefly at the Netflix documentary we were watching

Because I drown in my feelings sometimes

And I need to desahogarme

To vent, to relieve the pressure that suffocates me

Because I’m overflowing beneath the surface with all of these things I want to say and do and feel

With you

And I’m tired of sparse digital communications and maybe flirting and emoticons and casual jokes

And I wanted to say something along the lines of I want you

But my fingers were too clumsy and slow

And I stumbled through a few lines

Because it’s like maybe and almost and not quite blend in this potentially beautiful and terrifying way

It’s hard to breath, I told you

It’s hard to exist, I meant

You’re way to perfect, you know

All grins and oversized eyes and philosophical inclinations and meanings behind inked flesh

And I’m just trying to make this all seem real

Yeah that’s all I can muster

Yeah this isn’t quite a poem

This Doesn't Feel Organic

And synthetic means it's for profit

It's getting awfully repetitive, I feel. I keep writing about it.

Cause and effect. A catalyst has reasserted its chemical properties. And the words are merely residual. This is ineffable, I will continue to assert.

But it still sounds the same. And the feeling has been there all along. This is just geography. This is just physicality. This is just reality.  And I've already made you into an ideal.

And I can't blame you for everything. Just some things. Just most things.

But I'm only ruminating over events that transpired and those that could have.

And this was meant to be a short introduction.



My grandfather turned 79 this weekend, and I was invited to his birthday party. As I sat on the couch of my tio's house, I wrote this on my phone. I'm not a social butterfly; I emerged from my cocoon too soon for that.

I think I am in love with you
It's tragic, really
But that's the truth
Naked
Like my blemished body on your bed
Sometimes in my dreams
More times than I would like to admit

Making love
It's euphemistic, you know
We're just quenching lust
And I'm just clawing at your skin for affection at this point

And it's even worse that you're a mantra
Written on paper
Hearts they shred
And the blood's a given at this point, love

I could be your love
If you just let me fall into your arms
As I stumble into consciousness and reality and bad decisions
With little clothing
And even less inhibitions

Becaus I've been told love hurts
Like this
It burns
Like this
It kills
Like this

And I'm just a little bit suicidal
Doctors say
I display classic signs
Doctors say
I need fixing
And you're here
Or close enough
A drug relapse even

Because I love to paint your eyes on my skin
I tattoo your name here, too
So trace me with your fingertips
Create galaxies on my eyelids
And whisper that you see  the stars dancing over our heads
We are of the same matter, you've said
We possess divine attributes
But all I care for are you cellular characteristics
The vulgarity of you
That's really all I want
You're really all I want

I wrote this in November. Man, fuck you for inspiring this.

There's someone else. Truly. Or almost. And I think it's getting better. 

And as I Continue to Document Our Not-Relationship

My dreams about you are different than what I expect

They’re not physical

Just delicately romantic

Not melodramatic

Just stable

It’s always that sweet before. Before sex, before a kiss, before a relationship. Before you even have to say aloud that you want something.

It’s looking at you and knowing that we feel the same. Holding your hand. Or meeting your eyes. Or having that little drop in my tummy as you say something that hints at infatuation. Or sitting so close to you my skin tingles.

Because I think that’s where you exist for me. In the before. In the almost. In the Dear God, just please. 

Last night’s dream was no exception.

You messaged me and then when I failed to respond, sought me out. All shy grins and shirt sleeve fidgets.

I-I’m that one that sent you those, um, flirty messages that you, you know, didn't respond to.

And that’s where it ends.

That’s where they end.

I don’t know if this is a step forward or backward, but I think that’s what I want from you.

Certainty, stability, an affirmation. I like you. I want you. And I want you to know these things.

In a way it’s like you’re too sweet for a sex dream. Or a fight dream. Or, a “you broke my heart in such a way it’s like you shot me” dream. It’s like you’re wholly different from the other guy, and so there can be no overlap.

It’s like my infatuation is different with you. Because I want your love. I want your attention. I want a relationship. And that’s the part of you that my heart wishes for. That’s why it ends as soon as that part is fulfilled. Because it’s what I want most from you.

Dream me and you, we just interact in such a way as to hint to one another our true feelings. And for dream me, that’s enough. For real me, that might be enough, too.