I love languages,
dialects,semantics...syntax...reading between the
lines..Every relationship has its own language...and
when that relationship dies-its language turns into
sanskrit-carved on some stones in some weird part of
your collective identity...

imagine what you and I can communicate in a look, a
touch,a reference to a place or thing...and long after
love becomes latin, a smell or a song can drum up that
dead language...

The last weeks we were together I had dreams of you
leaving or cheating...the first dream I had of you
since my rampage, was you telling me everything would
be okay.

guess the mind is tricky like that...It seems like the
one person you should be able to trust is you-but
sometimes the psyche is all smoke and
mirrors...relationships are tough and the one you have
have with yourself-at times-the most difficult.

I miss the house. The red walls in the kitchen, the
electric fireplace, the berk-berks,I miss the
foundation, the walls that we played in,lazy
mornings...

I miss the man I fell in love with...who stayed up all
night fixing the bike for me, who drank pitchers of
sangria with shawn and I at panchos, who introduced me
to richard, who let me get to know micheal patrick as
more than some bar room lech, who drove me to chicago
and fell into a jewish tragedy, who bought me tommy,
who had sex with me in the kitchen on front street,
who made me love him-come hell or blue flamed buttton
ups.

where did he go?

my body has changed...as well as my perspective...but
I crave that language, our own type of aramaic...

I want to sneak into your house and bake you a
lasagna...I want to play with you and the
berk-berks...

I miss you tonight.come hell or grateful dead button
ups