In a surreal way,
I remember talking about some very real things.
I remember looking at you from across the couch,
seeming like miles away,
but here all at once,
again.
You had been gone a long time
& I was just starting to end
lingering thoughts of you,
But your memory hit me 
like an unexpected sting
& then there you were,
on my couch,
Telling me you had been miles away
& you had felt that way
but you're here now
all at once,
again.

You want more. 
More
tattoos,
money,
respect,
sexual adventures.
You want more to
discover,
drink,
experience.
You want 
to be the star
but left alone.
You want
the bills to let you rest
& for the time to,
For your thoughts to escape you.
You want to go back to a photograph, 
To a boy unaware of his circumstances. 
You want to leave 
& pretend your baggage won't come too,
Although passively I'm the same way;
Avoiding my own intuition
& chasing you when you can't stay.

I think of you making pretty girls laugh
& maybe they get to see under your clothes.
Maybe your charm stretches from your tongue
& over their eyes
& vowels shake out of you both all night.
Maybe you love starting over;
the questions are exciting yet polite,
You're only knowing at a certain level,
& it's like you've never met yourself.

Jokes so people love me.               

Jokes so reality doesn't crush me. 

A corner of light 

to stretch across the room 

when the mood is dark.

Sometimes it's not appropriate;

heavy blankets pull over my head.

I anchor myself down.  

Though the thoughtful distance 

into deeper dark

is worth appreciating, 

The way up requires the right energy.

The energy to 

clear the hauntings of past lessons,

shake words that never went anywhere,

& to do this without bruising my own mind.

The energy to forgive myself

for my feelings,

So they may lift my sinking heart 

to higher thoughts.

I always had to word 
my conversations so carefully,
to find the right ones for your tastes.
I was exhausted before I even spoke.
Naturally you'd always look baffled by me
if I was upset,
when I didn't expect those answers
& I wanted to throw my questions away.

You unwillingly learn from me;

hurling yourself over the sides of my words

& I try to catch you. 

We pretend to read minds

& resentment adds to a pile

that we pick from when we're angry.

I remember you telling me: 

"You get too deep sometimes." 

But even then,
I'd rather too than not at all or a little.

          Even still,

I want to open up your chest
   & free all the lost laughs
              & good
you should've always known. 

I feel like I'm always waiting for you;
Staring at a clock,
a box,
a door,
Waiting for our story to begin again
the way it usually does;
Burning brightly & intensely,
Burning for strength, 
for warmth,
Excitement,
& reactions,
For a calming haze.
Waiting until it's too hot,
Waiting to watch the flames 
dance & bend
& with insatiable appetite,
consume all they touch.
Waiting to watch fire, 
exhausted by its own desires,
die in the ash
If given no room to breathe.

In the similar manner
          that I have to remind myself to breathe while eating,
I acknowledge that my attention can crave
   even more than I can take.
I remind myself to slow down
           with the people I let into my more than occassional thoughts.
& I ask why not try to transfer this pace 
            to other aspects of my life;
a career, 
saving money, 
buidling a talent,
building myself.
               I'm aware. 
But my energy speaks for me
   & the vessel of my body obeys.
I go where my mind takes me,
           I'm influenced by my own ways.
The past may provide suggestive signs
& I could follow them if it seems comfortable.
           I may wander until I'm tired
& disenchanted by my own chaos.
But I could find a moment of my own clarity & beauty
& peace of mind may find me. 

It's hard to see you cling to the idea of a man,

A steady dragging of ideals through a comfortable mud, 

Setting no boundaries except for testing your trivial limits;

How pissed off can I get about this unfinished laundry 

though it stems from larger problems? Etc.

I see suppressed passion for a world outside of his.

I see promises floating away from you,

& a warped sky that lets them pass through.

I see how easy it is for you to not see at all.

If I fall in love with another writer,
I might die in adjectives.
We might be too many Christmas lights.
We could write novels over minor details 
& already over analyze the future. 
We could fall like heavy shadows on the ground.
But. 
We might make music want to write for us.
We could be the stars spearing through the dark.
We could be sex made of sunshine & lightning.
We could curl up in each other's words 
& fall deeply 
for the way they're animated. 

.Laura Curren.









Tie me up with the 
curls of the smile that I have 
when I talk to you.

.Laura Curren. 

Passion is a fun friend of mine

     We can stay up late

     & touch each other 

     until we can't think or speak.

     We can escape into ideas,

     forget everything to remember each other.

     But I could never call you at 2 am 

     when my thoughts are strangled around 
     the strange concept of self esteem,

     energy fueled by trusting myself.

     I could never ask you to hold my hand when I'm nervous, 

     to calm me not with an orgasm,

     but with a voice that undresses my worries

     & allows me to see them for what they really are.

     I could never ask you

     to hold everything I carry,

     the aftermath. 

     I could fuck you until I'm hungry 

     but I could never ask you to stay for breakfast. 

       .Laura Curren.

In a surreal way,
I remember talking about some very real things.
I remember looking at you from across the couch,
seeming like miles away,
but here all at once,
again.
You had been gone a long time
& I was just starting to end
lingering thoughts of you...
But your memory hit me 
like an unexpected sting
& then there you were,
on my couch,
Telling me you had been miles away
& you had felt that way
but you're here now
all at once,
again.