easy things:

a. taking a shower
b. making coffee, (bustelo),
c. making tea, (earl grey, vanilla rooibos)
d. using the words: blue, sky
e. filling the beer basket in my fridge
f. laying in bed, on my stomach
g. walking around naked in my apartment
h. developing brief crushes (punk acoustic guitar boy, awkward charming clinical psych researcher, depressed ex-punk guitar hero boy on too many opiates, semi-shy nerdy hot rock band boy, semi-shy guitarist boy who looked better with a beard, boring academic psych researcher, russian-punk boy who plays summertime & the electric, depressing ex-wannabe punk nerd boy who loves motown, hot stalker nerdy doctor boy who calls me clementine or tangerine, beautiful dreaded steampunk graphic novelist boy who's had too much lifetime-pot, foodie southern writer boy who turned out to be awkward, bearded trombone boy whose voice was unsexy, trombone boy who i have no interest in meeting because he's a blondy, southern biologist nerd boy, punk boy, hipster faux-punk boy,)
i. making friends, network-zoning, bro-zoning, friend-zoning, i-don't-need-this-zoning
j. taking another shower, (extra-hot for guilt and/or anxiety, kneeling if needed)
k. baking brownies
l. guilt-spiraling
m. hugging my pillows, which smell nice; fresh summertime air & my own skin-scent
n. existential-state oscillation
o. playing music (pandora, guitar)
p. not making it to "z"
q. not being alone, being alone, being blasé, being disinterested, being mellow, being content, being distracted, being distracted by fun sharp things, being in love with paper, being in love with color, being in love with noir, being somebody else, being inspired, being comfortable, being bored with comfort & ease
r. watching a movie on a computer
s. coin-operated people/machines/toys/pets
t. winter in the shut window, summer in the open window, blue skies & clouds in both
u. breaking out in song
v. playing with my ipad
w. hanging upside down off the edge of my bed
x. procrastinating
y. making more coffee
z. triteness

hard things:

i. penises, tits, diamonds, glass, tables, concrete, the hardest level of video games
ii. taking vitamins
iii. packing up: my room, my apartment.
iv. the unbearable lightness of being
v. быть серьезнaya
vi. liquor, marbles, the desire to fuck things up
vii. blades, bottles, lamps & lightbulbs
viii. my teeth, bones, walls
ix. being a stellar soul
x. my guts

two truths and a lie:
- the sweetness will not be concerned with me
- alice: why won't you let me love you?
-

Dear somebody-that-I-could-fall-in-love-with,

I'd bake you cupcakes, once in a while, probably randomly, in the middle of the night.
You don't even really like cupcakes, because honestly, who could eat more than one? But I'd bake you them. They'd be bite-size, and they'll come in many flavors, because I know you like variety.  Chai, almond, lemon-poppy, vanilla, chocolate, tres leches. You'll have a favorite.

And you'll still be in the shadows of some old love. Or you're really jaded, and well, sex is sex, is kind of awesome. We all want love, but my god, these youthful bodies weren't meant to be wasted with pining & on imperfect timing. I mean, Romeo was in love with Rosaline 'til it was Juliet, and if he hadn't died from all the much needed excitement & drama, it'd probably be Beatrice next.
We'd be more of the Dante & Beatrice kind of people, by the way. Less by choice, and more by inherent nature; we have issues with romance & reality. We love from afar, on pedestals, with disinterest, have muses & ideals. And we write. Plenty of writing, but all of it, in our own private spaces.

When we're close, in the decisive moment, before growing distant, or close, I'll love the idea I've got of you. You'll love the naked visage of me. I'll realize, that I love kissing you.

We'll forget who we're supposed to be, shed those selves, favorite t-shirts for warm skin. Barriers.

In wet and soft, and hard-pressing mouths, I'll find myself.
I am a lockpick with a set of keys, and you are full of old, locked doors. In your hallway, my bare toes'll trace along the wooden floorboards, carefully caressing over the dark, cool grain. Water damage.
 
And this is how I will love you.

And I'll know it's love, and not just sex, because after doing it with you, I'm going to want to do it again, because it starts so much like a fire, a thing of heat & hunger, and consuming, because it's all about having, and I will have you, soul & body of my taking.

but the gods are all asleep

Dear Joan,

Do you ever lie, curled up on your bed, at four in the morning, and think, God, I’m a mess?

I can see you, in the dark, in my mind. Envision, is the better word.

Your eyes are blank, and open. You’re lying on your side, with your short, stiff, blonde-gray bob. You have wrinkles, things that your body wrought.

I think you’re a creature of restraint, although I’ve read that you hosted a party for the Ramones.

I suppose that you don’t actually lie in the dark.

Maybe you sit in chairs.

I don’t think that you write anymore. Not at four, in the morning. Your hands are stiff. The circulation goes out. Old wiring, and pretty, faulty bulbs. You have a frail body, but I don’t think of you as fragile, in any sense.

It’s always too cold, so much so, that you’re used to it, that the clammy iciness of your hands are comforting, to the few who’ve gotten close enough to you, but also to yourself. Mostly, primarily, to yourself.

It’s reassuring, the chill, in the soft of your fingers, and the cup of your hand, that armchairs, presses into your face. Cheekbone. Your jaw, under that flesh. Living bones are fragile, firm. The medial, orbital wall beneath your eyes. Light and capillaries. Knitwork of the gods.

That half of an inhale of air, of night, quiet apartments, and dim lighting. The city lingers in, titian and shadow. The sound of your own slow breath, streaming shallowly, into the bathtub of your lungs. You never take deep, full breaths, but you don’t know why. You try, but it never comes, never feels right.

You don’t sleep, but you breathe, like a sleeper, whose body will sometimes jerk in the night.

You are running, in your stillness, but your body dreams of falling. It’s a betrayal; you know. There is no flight in these bones, so you don’t fight, but you sit.

And sometimes, you lie down. You look at the light, and at your things, and you lie down, because your body wants it. You want it.

The pillows are kind, but you press your cheek against the sheets, and listen, to the bed. Soft creaks, and your heartbeat. Just like in the floor, when you were a young child. Great heights from unsteady tables. The running, back and forth, as fast, as hard as you could, slamming your body into those badly-painted iron fences.

How could sleep ever be enough? How could anything?