There are words I want to etch on my skin,
to remember forever,
to burn them into my mind
with color and blood
things I forget.

That is is lonely in a desert;
that is is lonely chez les hommes.
But the beauty of a desert
is that it can hide an oasis.

That tears drops
can turn to stars of fire.

There's also the horribly terrible idea
of immortalizing the words of Malvolio
at the crux of my hip
but it would sooooooo funny.

Please forget this.
Don't remind me
that I said too much
(that I drank too much)
for I'm falling apart
and don't know how to stop.

i just need to leave here.
leave everywhere.
leave all these half-eaten dreams,
this bittersweet pains,
these memories half-invented.
i just need to go somewhere new
and leave my next trail of destruction
in my wake.

'Cause I can't keep gluing myself together
with hopes i made up from lies
(because loyalty is my core
but who said honesty has anything
to do with that)
and i've turned myself around
trying to escape being seen
that I don't know who
I should rebuild myself to be.

i don't know what i need
but whatever it is
i don't have it.

I am content again,

and happily have arms grounding me

as I smile

(literally grounding me.

apparently drinking together

means lying on the floor together)

I wish it would not end,

that friends did not have to part,

that wishes were not useless

before the onslaught of time.

Like a Romantic poet,

fighting against reality,

I shall seal away this memory

of when I knew rest.

Just when I think,
I'm leaving it behind -
all the damage,
the hurt,
the memories -
something reels me back in,
like claws,
serrated,
hooked in my heart
and I remember him
and how being so close
to a rushing torrent
I was dragged down
as the water wore
at my foundation
and here I am still rebuilding.

But I'm rebuilding.
Bit by shattered bit,
I say "fuck you"
to the ragged edges
that prick and stab
at the ends of old wounds,
smoothing them over
that I improve.

Because sometimes,
you leave a bridge slowly,
carefully wearing it down
and burying it in earth
so that while the grave
may mar for a little while
it will fade.

Sometimes you set the bridge on fire,
turn it into an inferno,
because it will scar
and will always scar
so you might as well try and be rid
of everything,
and cackle madly in masochistic glee.

The patterns of dust on the floor
tell the tale of dancers
moving in time
and learning new things,
meeting new people.

It's wonderful,
when the light shines just so
on the tiles
where there were once
dark shapes on a golden floor.

His head ducks
and rises in time
to music only he hears,
headphones securely placed,
while his fingers move
in a flurry of typing
and my fingers itch
to weave through his beard
and condescendingly pat him-
platonically of course.

"Les effluves de rhum dans ta voix,
me font tourner la tête"
and I'm twisting and turning
like a cigarette caught between
nervous fingers tapping on tables
while my hips have a rhythm all their own-
captivated by fantasy,
lose me in the music
and the magic of my own feet.

Be careful how long you stare-
toes, waist,
lithe limb and tossed head
may catch you in a snare
you'll not be loosed from-