Cookie Supreme.

I want to live only for ecstasy. Small doses, moderate loves, all half-shades, leave me cold. I like extravagance. Letters which give the postman a stiff back to carry, books which overflow from their covers, sexuality which bursts the thermometer. An eclectic mix of ruffled bedsheets, waking up in the morning to sunshine on your pillow, the beckoning lukewarm sea water, jumping off cliffs in an attempt to discover yourself, fogs of occasional nebulous nostalgia — the simple things in life.

Rainbow Sorbet.

We all fall in love with a sunset or a sunrise, but the sun has never set or risen in it’s existence, it’s stayed in one position and we have hurtled ourselves through space to see it from all sides. The truth has never changed and as together as you glue yourself to someone else, to their name or clothes or world, you will still have two layers of skin between yourselves. 

Pina Colada

Behind her veneer of social proximity and sexual propriety, she is an insecure, dislocated individual, and aging small town girl who lives in a state of perpetual panic about her fading beauty. Her manner is dainty and frail, and she sports a wardrobe of showy articles, the cheapness of her clothes is seen as metaphorical symbols of her mental condition. She begins to drink heavily, conjuring up the notion; the old flame, a millionaire is imminently planning to take her away.

Banana Split.

She slips into the bathtub and raises her arms;
Literally surrendering to the emotional anguish.
Her kitten jumps up to drink from the water,
and she doesn't even bother to push her away.
There's nothing like hearing that boys voice on the reciever,
and she cringes from the chills and her fever.
Her headache persists from the ticking of the clock,
one heavy repetitive stroke after another.
It's only afternoon and she's already waiting for the afternoon,
It'll be the promise of glory in the form of a sunrise.

Vanilla Bean.

Maybe if the pages had post-parallel lines it would fit more symmetrically inside my conscious. Just like an actual confessionary that scares the truth from its source, I could speak lines through the grate to jealous ears just beyond our separation. Yet this will have to serve its purpose like all the precedents prior. Maybe I could slip it under the door when I know no one is at home. Then I wouldn't have to feel ashamed; I wouldn't have to beg forgiveness for wanting you like I do. All I ever wanted was to feel like this was right, finally in my destined state. With every choked-up confession I sulk a little further because I know I'm not allowed to leave this place smiling. Make me over into someone new; all I ever wanted was you to hold onto. And I could recite this over and over. I could smash out the window with these fragile fists just to prove how serious I can be. I am too tired when I get home and I hate crying myself to sleep just because no one is there to listen. I am too damn tired when I wake up that no earthly amount of holy water can bring optical swelling down. I go again; I leave again, on behalf of expected company. At least he looks forward to hearing another vicariously lived-through sin. The time has come to claim a fortune mine but my era has expired. Maybe if the pages wore invisable ink I would feel safer just knowing that my thoughts were hidden. Yet I write too fast and speak too freely, now lacking a wall to curl-up behind. Maybe I could smile as I reach in to remove his collar, and tell him that the water won't ever stop his swelling. Then I could leave with the door open and his mind refreshed and dance all the way around back to his doorstep. It's a path I've never taken but wanted to so many times. With three pages in my pocket I wouldn't choose to feel ashamed; I wouldn't choose to apologize for wanting you like I do. I would enter without a moments hesitation; Maybe you'd listen as I cry and say something that you mean.

Mackinaw Island Fudge.

I am dancing around the fire; or rather the residue of ashes, clinging to the coals, smothered by murder. The tips of my fingers reach out, longing to touch the flames that use to burn so passionately. We both lost the drive of hope somewhere between the ocean’s coast and the roads we once traveled on; repeatedly. You kissed the air between us, the air that reached my inhalation. I reacted, and un-reacted. Squeezing your hand that much tighter, searching for certainty in the depths of you cavity. Every day the thought of what it would be like once we both returned home clawed at my core. Our failure reminds me of foiled plans to discover china in a sandbox, or find butterflies in my bed. Nonetheless, my non-sense was stabilized by your ability to deflect insecurity and place me in a fragile glass box; inscribed with love’s ignored faults and the familiar scent of home. Where is my new lullaby?
p.s. please tell me there will be no goodbyes.

Pistachio Almond.

It all comes back. Sometimes going away is nice too. I guess we can all be fuckers and enjoy it. Buy a pair of sunglasses that make you feel too cool for school, too hot to trot, and untouchable. Famous, maybe even a little bit of an asshole. It's like Halloween any day of the week. We should be our Achilles Heels or Arch Nemeses for Halloween. October feels nice, like childhood moments with fantasizing we had different names and that we were cooler people than we thought we were.