Anonymous: Aw you make my dick so hard :P

Wow. Thanks.

If you don’t want to be with me
just say so

And I’ll go 

It takes more than fucking somewhere to keep yourself warm.

Anonymous: I think I just made that last post, not anonymous. Fuck.

Huh?

I still catch myself feeling sad about things that don’t matter anymore.
― Kurt Vonnegut (via dulcetdecember)
Anonymous: what's your sexuality? :x

It seems only boys strip their undergarments for me.
And it seems I only do the same. 

like roses in plastic jugs.

A man carrying a sack

of heavy hearts.

A woman carrying her child.

Perhaps, the same.

The burden of love and 

sadness. 

We have it all.

But we choose to notice only parts.

The rest, written in clear ink,

placed in the cellar of our mind.

Our minds, plagued by despair.

And the rest of us infected by cavities

hidden in our vessels.

We spill our drinks on the

calf of another

to find love in an

empty hole.

We spit our saliva on things

with no appeal.

We get out of bed in the morning

to confront our hate and put up with

our misery. We listen to the same

sad song to position us in

the hands of lost embrace.

The fan blows my hair

and I think of summertime lately.

And when I go to sleep

I think of the bare skin

for centuries, put to forbidden use.

And all our fallacies for why

we have broken hearts.

I asked a man today what he wanted out of life:

he told me pleasure.

I told him love.

Anonymous: Could you count our sorrows like the rings of a tree? How old our scars. How fresh our yearning. I want to be everything for you; warmth, light, comfortable places to cling to. I want to excite you, stir you up, and sustain you. Much I long to be a fragment of your smile.. A portion of your desire.. A ghost within your dreams. Though in the end I find, it's you that haunts me.
Anonymous: I come back here day after day to stalk your mind, beautiful, like the way the stars flicker against the black drop of the sky - reminds me of my favourite childhood toy, light bright. I come back here day by day to linger your mind, like a tattoo, which I feel you left scratched upon my heart.. But the nights are falling more quickly, quickly like the way your change of heart sprung upon me and now I'm afraid to make another memory.. So perhaps I'm not strange at all, just cautious.

Don’t be afraid.

I want to know your mind, too. 

II.

There is a valid reason

why the milk curdels

on the hottest days

of June, right

before you smile

— the frames of

ourselves

become distorted

by the air

and we blame it on

the temperature.

And there is discretion behind

daydreaming in circles

I have lingered

in the coat closet

for enough time to

know that 

you cannot love when

you’ve no room to move

— 

If I sit here for seven minutes

to play lullaby on quartet 

will you tell me how

you glow like the

moon?

welcome signs.

Four-hundred seventy kilometres

until I am back to tomorrow.

Riding foreign soil, coming to land

that grew us until we became full bloom.

Hours, I peer at trees lined against fallow sky

and I look at the chests of

excited hearts, beating frantically —

thoughts of familiar faces, sentimental places. 

I’ve forgotten the ways I’ve felt here,

replaced by mindful creations

to keep me content.

In the light of day, I watch the passing-by.

It’s the time of year we begin to unwind,

crack and stagger.

And in the dark, the everyday stands still.

I was the alibi to quiet minds, here.

I was the etched doorframe and the 

candlewick at it’s last light.

I can still feel the equinox on my fingertips.

But I don’t know these bones anymore.

Anonymous: I'm glad you thought the runaway wave poem was beautiful, it was about you. My experience with you.

Thank you, stranger. Perhaps you don’t have to be so strange, though. I would love to reminisce.