“Now boarding flight 427 to – ”
It doesn’t matter.

You look down at your passport,

Your face staring back at you.
The block print
Imposing on you:
Name
Nationality
DOB
Place of birth

But sitting in boarding area B6
Maybe C1 or H7
What does it mean
To everyone around you?

The man next to you,
Is he a citizen

Going away for business or vacation?
Is he foreigner,
Returning home to see his family?
                                                It doesn’t matter.

Stripped of your name and nationality
To everyone around you,
You are just as anonymous,
An unnamed character in internationally unclaimed territory.

To the woman at the boarding gate,
You are another passenger,
Absently passing from point A to point B.
Only when she recognizes you
As the next Christmas Day underwear bomber,
Or maybe her favorite celebrity icon Victoria Beckham
Would she even bat an eye
Before offering you your complimentary Ginger Ale and bag of peanuts.

The other passengers open their cans around you –
Pop pop fizz pop –
Each open can a reminder
Of how you are just another passenger on flight 427 to
                                                It doesn’t matter.

Only passing back through the gates,

Welcoming you home in your native tongue,
“Willkommen”
“Bienvenue”
“Karibu,”
Are you once again more than an unidentified passenger
In seat 42B.

From unacknowledged in 42B,
To familiar.

No passport necessary
To alert you to your own identity.

driving home

through the 9:30pm street lights

head resting on the steering wheel

happy belated (I don’t really give a fuck) birthday to you you’re not my favorite like you used to be maybe you should get comfortable away from me i know i am actually no i’m not that’s not possible because i still i still do like you i just won’t admit it you were pretty great remember those nights – no. – really? i do and i still do i still will i still am – yes happy belated (I still care so much) birthday to you – that’s why i bothered to even say it late i don’t always do that you know.

you know i know you know i know i know

“I shut my eyes and all the world drops dead;
I lift my lids and all is born again.
(I think I made you up inside my head.)

The stars go waltzing out in blue and red,
And arbitrary blackness gallops in:
I shut my eyes and all the world drops dead.

I dreamed that you bewitched me into bed
And sung me moon-struck, kissed me quite insane.
(I think I made you up inside my head.)

God topples from the sky, hell’s fires fade:
Exit seraphim and Satan’s men:
I shut my eyes and all the world drops dead.

I fancied you’d return the way you said,
But I grow old and I forget your name.
(I think I made you up inside my head.)

I should have loved a thunderbird instead;
At least when spring comes they roar back again.
I shut my eyes and all the world drops dead.
(I think I made you up inside my head.)”

pigmenting:

i’ve realized my entire life i’ve been asking people to share the wrong kinds of memories. most of our memories are made with other people, making that story belong to you and someone else. but there are other memories that we make on rainy days when we venture out from beneath the covers and find ourselves walking the streets of shops and coffee houses. there are other memories that we make in meadows and forests, on buses with kind strangers. these are the memories that belong only to us. the ones that may have been told in bits and pieces to distracted ears but never told entirely. the ones we deem irrelevant but secretly want to be asked about. i’ve realized that maybe these are the memories that show who we are in its purest forms because i think to know someone, you have to know how they live alone. 

Far from suburbia
Washing your hands in a public bathroom
Trying to scrub away
Last night’s regrets
And alcoholic drinks
Still heavy on your breath
You try to drown it all
In cheap gas station coffee.

nothing could change that you were there no memories aren’t okay you said yes — no I said but I said yes — goddammit that drunken whisper rolling off the curl of your lips the rain pattering on the window made me you made me the sound from nothing is the same a lullaby I thought you pressed your ear my ear I don’t think you heard — yes I did no never — absent miles half human half person calmed and free you you you rinse and repeat sufferably perfectly alone together and apart didn’t matter because I thought you were — I was — you weren’t — I was — you were I’ll agree — books sitting on the shelf that’s how blackouts are made I left oh God it’s black goddammit where the hell you that was it that was it speak the manifesto a calming mantra charming at best maybe broken to the last use before or after even not sure how you you make me feel I think it’s some number that’ a big number dear can you count backwards I can’t say my alphabet backwards sober never made stories not even around you I feel tested are you taking notes I think the teacher knows you’re not you know more than I know I don’t know much what is it that I don’t know that I don’t know think think no don’t think just do — you can’t — I can’t — you can — I can — you sure — laughs rise up from the mattress to my ear tickling hotel rafters I think my legs aren’t mine I can’t you’re with me is this my hand is that your heartbeat it’s so nice can you write me a song I feel it rising pulsing through you shirt one hundred percent cotton says the label you’re a label making me did I make a mark probably with some bic pen you write with needles I remember scratch outs yeah even those are okay — I’ll take them — you wouldn’t — yes I would I already have

mystrangesilhouettes:

I miss you soo much. 

It hurts.

mystrangesilhouettes:

 I love the way you stare at me while I smoke. Trying to catch my eyes in between the blow and mist, and find me staring at your stern mouth. Watching you smirk that naughty grin, like a whiplash against my thighs. I’d make you watch me pull the smoke almost inside my throat, take it in, and then puff it all out on your lips. I’d sink my knees at the sides of your hips on your seat, and notch myself firmly gripping your neck, and taste you with my nicotine-filtered red lipstick. You’d capture my hipbones like handle bars, sink me , sitting on your lavish girth throne. You’d find the lacy brassiere, cuckolding your wicked plan. I smile at the hot-tempered brute and let him release myself for him to explore me further. His eyes spoke of hunger, and known anticipation. Wet languid desire inside his silver eyes. Like ice melting to the sun’s caress. He ravage my neck and sullied every corner known to love and bother. Took my breasts as succulent sponges and suction the seeping liberation that swelled upon it. I’d find that words indeed prove to be unintelligent when being stoked with such cursing pleasure and borrowed moments. He carried my bones and all the skin that seem to fall into ripples. He placed me to his bed, and shed his clothes like burdened shackles. I wanted to wrap my arms into his hold. And yet, he commanded me to recline and be obedient. He nuzzled a path, trailing his tongue, nose, and lips to every station of my body. Like a brazen train, unstoppable. And he loomed at the center of me, and just before he could siphon my very strength of will, he look at my hankering pain, as my breathing got sticky and uneven, my eyes pleaded for such release. He smirked once again, and made known that a mouth is indeed, an anatomy of pure pleasure. I felt chaos and wisdom mixed with the cumulus clouds, I felt floating and yet the lovely pain was no near subsiding. He then hovered above me, and used my thighs as reins for his impending revolt. I could feel his soul throbbing against me. He motioned the entry like a steamboat half-gliding and crashing against the waves. I have no leverage to get a hold of. Just the vastness of air and silk covers. I moaned, as he ruptured my  icy control. Carried me to every soft corners and imprinted our sweat against the surfaces. I moaned as he surveyed my very being, and made new additions to my  very identity. I learned that I could be both fearless and timid, and possessive yet obliging. I learned that having him, like this and even as he would be on tired and exasperating days, I’d have him wholeheartedly and fiercely, all him. A collective of all that makes of him. His sins and accolades combine. His meekness and ego. His anxiety and silence. His words and tears. I am him, as he is mine. As we collide into the curtains of liquid bliss. I touch his face as he held my hand. I’d be here, even if hell was nearer to my side. I’d no place, I’d rather be.

sleepsweet:

I couldn’t see you from the other side of the room,
and you clang pots and pans in response.
The morning passed in a drunken smile
tied to the doorknob and slammed.

The walls dance and syncopate
to the momentum carried in your tongue
when you bite down on the

Walls sing hymns in the church,
their tired supports groaning a lazy song,
a moral story of how we’re all children
with growing up.