intuition's logic; poetry

letting this beginning feel pain. i enter a tunnel. tasteful you’re sweet taste that turns bitter forever by one moment that you make noticed every time. one after the other through each other as dead heads are moving up then back down to the floor. it looks for space to breathe out dirty air that you pushed in. outside coming inside with you. fists that squeeze my own flesh because yours has become too hot too repetitive too obvious for a place to rest. my outsides are screaming at the pleasure this pain is pushing forcing onto my little yellow turned brown skin. brown skin trying to turn away from you’re steaming breezes gathering, carrying, crying through open frosted windows and jump over and under and in between our arms. i taste your senses and feel your exhaustion. move your eyes under my drenched dry uttering squirming skin layer. i torture my taste and the feeling after this reunion before this fight our pelvis’s had. i taste your beauty in shining parts and waste time to feel it again. again and again and again and again’s for repetitions’ harassment. but now that it’s still, it’s more cleaver and alert and you’re sweet taste turns bitter forever by one moment that you make noticed every time. open, closed. wet dry. perfect. happiness died he was happy and it disfigured the following questions: the most important reason was his smile. the most important place his upper cheeks. he still walks and i think he still breathes. he even tells me he still loves. but i know there has been a death inside him. underneath me. happiness is dead it died, its dead. i know that because i squeeze his cheeks and no matter how hard i try those dimples are gone they have bluntly ruined his face. disappeared. that warmth in his eyes have been replaced with matte and i cry silent absence from that touch on his finger that has now become a reptile’s story. my laugh named contagious is embarrassed and runs back inside. that expression on your face is like your smile commit suicide all i know is that it has been reincarnated into someone else’s blush someone else’s cheeks someone else’s wind. she’s so lucky. i need to find this long turned short breath before it’s too late. i need that happy to come back in my life. because happy died and i think it is a tragedy it took it’s own life from you, that left me no choice but to want to die without it. i am disintegrating into fresh skin. the back of my thought is itchy and it’s asking me not to do this but the front of my face is empty. no water no ruined patterns no long talks about short breath silence no arguments about who calls back when the other hangs up you hung up first. i’m lamenting it today but forcing it tomorrow. today seems impossible. ill take a shower and try to forget about what i’m going to remember. your deceitful body surrounding my frame disguised in tiny water droplets. this shower will hug me so tight then let go the way you did. push me away, as i did. the liquid, perfect, folds. lines. creases. around me, i loved that. now i will fantasize about how long my breath will be when i run back into your sad heat your determined inspiration for my thoughts once again. forgetting that i was suppose to think before i ran back to you. remembering that it was this place where we fell part, in love and apart. like a death of happy heart. i owe it to beautiful blue. i can’t forget that it was you that first arose this blue beauty. i forgot that this is where my excitement was born. where my life became meaningful. i started to believe in other destiny’s other ways of expressing in you. wannabe me’s. surrounded by fake colors i’m inside these feverish colors and the only time it’s real is when it’s dark. the only time it’s hidden and shadows an attempt where i don’t even stop to let you breathe. i keep using you for my own pleasure, pressure of thoughts that are to fast to slow down. i turned the page and didn’t know when i said that thought that felt that. this is so real it makes me sick inside my fake brown skin. this lent skin bag of skin i burrowed with no choice. tasteless fake cruel sometimes real, bags of skin. a bag that is integrating and simultaneously tasting important situations. a bag confused with all around it that presents it to reach it’s final destination of emptying out the bag of it’s bare necessitates. i can add to this layer and pretend it’s warm. in the end all it is a reflection of blue. bag. bag. bag. empty full. its still a bag. feels last title before knowing that it should have been closed to the known. it was that already white cat. already opposite who seemed to choose my curb to contemplate suicide in front of. if this doesn’t make sense i wonder what does. a real laugh as real as from the inside and not for the outside? i don’t even give you a chance to breathe what’s good its great. better that i could imagine an ongoing stop. sarcastic smiles spelled wrong, forgetting and careless so purposeful that mistakes already left a chance. feels like the first breath i released on to this poor helpless complicated turned page. opposite in figure, speech. my tone of internal happiness. i am your reason’s lesson he’s going to make you see through me. when the fellow returns in a silk indian shirt i shall start all over again in my over worked too obsessed conceited mind’s story. its not the last page. i feel beginnings.