I think that maybe,
if it were of a desperate sort
you would want it more. Want me more.
The matter of the thing is,
What if it is desperate for one person,
and not so for the other?

I'm just letting you know,
I don't need you.
I can make so many, plenty of beautiful things,
with or without your company.
Unfortunately for you,
I tend to be satisfied,
regardless of my frustrations,
Or how angry you make me.

Fuck you. Just fuck you for trying.

I cannot drink too much,

You make me feel so empty sometimes,
because you're so full of everything.
You're full of words and ideas and honest-to-god faithfulness.
You're full to the brim with tears,
big, salty, warm tears that go splash when they land.

You are full, so full in fact
that you over-swell the cup at times.
You flood and you flow and you drench me in your sweetness.
And afterward, when I've been set out to dry,
and your essence is evaporating away, away from me
I try and snatch back what I can from the theiving air.
Like a child I cling to the promises, the dreams and ceremonies.
For fear, for worry, for enduring promise.

You're so full, when you're not trying to fill me.

An Ode to Target

Illuminating red beckons those who seek to
invest in hats, scarves, and gloves for the bitter bitch
that winter is.

A concrete monster separates you from salvation,
painted yellow, assigning your personal space,
and limiting your dance.

But a step and a stumble over pot-holes
that wish to swallow you whole,
a glass automatic door awaits.

You prance, clutching the insides of your pockets,
yearning for that first breath of warmth,
itching for a smile and a, "May I help you?"

And though your second wish never comes,
it is enough to be able to spread your lips
in a smile that can only spring from thawing limbs.