I can keep secrets
but I’d rather tell them
the sad truth about nearly all boys, nearly all the time:
we’re all just tryin to bust a nut
The entirety of our selfs
has only mostly been witnessed by our self. Not even I know myself in my entirety. And yet, the deepest desire of most is to be understood completely, to share absolutely. Love is a compromise between the ideal and the possible. A paradox of compromise; because two cannot be one, and the ideal cannot compromise. […]
I can’t tell
whetherI don’t trust youorI don’t trust myself around you
Sneaking glances,
stealing touches,we’re on different pagesof different booksbut somehowthese chaptersi n t e r t w i n e . You and I are something.
There is not much beauty
a swift and nimble navigation of the repressed
resulted in a confrontation with a thoughtbred by desireseemingly contradictoryto my ownsense of right and wrong exeunt
I cannot manage the issue at hand
my sheets are dampbut that chill is nothingcompared tothe specters of memoryand delusions grantedby the unintelligible desireI must cut this poem shortand close my eyesand try to sleepbefore grieftakes me over