i would really like to taste your tongue

I would really like to taste your tongue, but I’m scared that you’ll run away. I don’t want you to run away. I know you’ll send me a text message that says, “I’m sorry, but I had to.” I’ll ask why and you won’t respond for two weeks. I don’t know where I will be when you respond. I would really like to taste your tongue and it becomes so easy to forget that you never wanted to taste mine. I brush my teeth morning and night, sometimes after lunch too. I brush my teeth, floss and pick at my gums. I don’t do this because I care about my teeth or gums, but because hygiene is just an excuse to bring people close. I think that’s the only reason anyone really cares. It’s not the reason you find me repulsive, though. I wish I knew the reason. I would really like to taste your tongue, but you’ve been away for a couple of weeks now and I’m certain you’ve found somebody with a longer, more put together tongue. Someone always has something more adept than someone else’s something. The world works in very interesting ways. Once, way before you even know I existed (but I knew about you), I saw you at some poetry reading. I thought there was something wrong with the shape of your head and I didn’t really understand the way your teeth fit the way they did. I liked the shirt you were wearing. The way you were wearing your shirt made me think that you were capable of being both the best and the worst human being. It’s both nice and unpleasant to know that I was was right on some level. I would really like to taste your tongue, but I don’t know if there’s much left I can do to make it happen.

yeah?

clean up on aisle me

i was watching sunset blvd with my mother 
when you first texted me with your intentions,
a proposal to go out and see if the world would
embrace us—because maybe if it did we’d be able
to embrace each other, or at least rub shoulders. 

i don’t know where you’ve gone off to as of late,
but i’ve had too much white wine and i can’t 
pretend that my upper lip isn’t quivering a bit, 
a consequence of this wasabi-infused seaweed,
a consequence of always wanting you in my bed. 

there was a time when i was content with solitude,
but the idea of returning to my back porch with a 
novel, a coaster, a frozen meal under-microwaved—
well, i rather wait for you even though you’ve gone
off to a mecca, to a man whose mouth is more secure.

this is the last time, i find myself repeating again,
this is the last time i’ll be landlocked, surrounded
by such heavy breathing (my own)—but as i utter
this, your plane lands, your boat has docked, and
i can’t trust myself to pay for my own chinese food. 

my heart still hurts for someone for some reason. i don’t want this anymore. 

Six Feet Under.”Parallel Play.” Season 4. Episode 3.

few things (so many things)

we do our best not to fall into vicious cycles,
fawning over boys and girls with wide eyes,
ones who spend their days cursing banality,
swearing off unsaturated fats and coloring,
meet-cutes and the comfort of a twin size.

such efforts are accompanied by grand failures,
issues from the government posted over doors,
'you've fallen in love with a bigot, young thing,'
and yet we continue to make poor decisions,
choosing red icing over the safe, friendly white.

how much longer can we stare at ourselves
in mirrors without experiencing a thorough
disdain, without rejecting accumulated grease, 
the ounces of letters that are ‘sent to drafts’
because we are too afraid to trash them. 

eventually, after life’s novacane has settled,
we look upon our experiences with remorse,
remorse and fond memories, an unavoidable
consequence of way too much sun exposure—
we forget how much it hurt becoming so tan. 

we do our best not to fall into vicious cycles,
but sometimes the cycles fall into us, into 
our unbuttoned shirts, into our social medias, 
into our wishful thinking—we do our best but
even that can’t save us from somebody’s worst. 

me. me. me. me.

This morning I murder your mother, but then I always murder your mother.

Flash Review: Mood Indigo

a-blog-about-film:

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Mood Indigo is a fascinating feature by one of our most beloved auteurs: Michel Gondry. And while this latest venture continues in the same vein as his Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind and The Science of Sleep—all elaborate, vibrant and impossible to fully comprehend—Mood Indigo is perhaps the most divisive of the three. It has a very loose narrative (based on the French novel Froth on the Daydream), is highly stylized and is, quite frankly, the most difficult film the director/writer has ever made. It stars Romain Duris as Colin and Audrey Tautou as Chloé, a married, very much in love couple who live in a Paris we have never seen before. Their world is colorful, almost Wonka-esque. For example, Duris’ character has invented a pianocktail, a device that creates cocktails based off the tone of a composition being played. It’s all clever stuff, more often than not enjoyable to watch. There really is nothing quite like it. Anyway, Mood Indigo is essentially divided into two parts. The first half of the movie is a quick-paced, light introduction to the relationship between Colin and Chloé. Here’s where the film is most miraculous, with two standout scenes that I’m sure most will pick up on. The second half deals with a strange disease Chloé has contracted and Colin’s desperate efforts to cure her. Things grow dark and it is here where the film loses its footing. As bemusing as its premise may be, Mood Indigo is often nonsensical, introducing extraneous characters and plot lines. It is often times too pretty, the epitome of style over substance. Nevertheless, as a whole, Mood Indigo still manages to be entertaining, unlike anything out there, a treat for those who lie awake at night wondering what’s inside Gondry’s mind. 

3.0/5.0