lank tangles

harsh ugly passion spills over
into the black pool of frustration
where rage boils wildly
and steaming wrath
escapes vehement in vicious lips
shrieking bitter malice
drowning spite manic laughing
beneath cruel eyes that see red
pulsing with madness
bleeding with hatred
over muscles clenched angry
seething furious
in sweet hot violent ire

like day and night apart
from one pole to the other
going gone leaving

slow sentences in an endearing croaky tenor
painted smile bright as the break of day
bruising grip so sure it could break bone

in circles with ease
like drawing breaths
how you do it so well

animated,
charming,
so very young.

youth is attractive in such that its verve is both boundless and contagious, challenging infinity to meet the expense of

fooling around like mischief incarnate,
dishing out saccharine remarks like it was payment for every breath taken,
grinning and smiling and laughing like all existence was beautiful.

"beautiful it is."

but alas, youth has a rather capricious approach to time that is

frustrating,
exhausting,
depressing.

without so much as a sigh, it would be off,

an exquisite daydream snapped back into focus,
drunken euphoria swallowed by a titanic hangover,
a sheer figment of hopeful, wishful imagination;

ephemeral,
ethereal,
ersatz.

bile bleeds into the fabric of bliss, the stain

dark,
permanent,
absolute.

healing seems a long time coming, for its consent or denial there is not a word, and time has grown weary of the wait. 

the picture fades,
the the grip slackens,
the beat stops.

and there is only

good night,
goodbye,
go.

this boy ---

the way he moves, every action driven by childlike curiosity, spurred by shy resolve and delivered with terrifying precision in this lazy-confident manner, that is incredibly, incredibly sexy in a naive, clumsy sort of way.

this boy ---

i am the bitch who will bite the head off of anyone, at least in my head, for senseless talk and grammatical sins, but i wouldn't trade his vain attempts at romance using broken sentences for anything.

this boy ---

when i brush my lips against his closed eyelids and feel his own lips curve into a smile on my throat, i am stepping into the heartbeat of a fever; i've embraced the sun.

neither of us know when and how "US" began  ---  maybe he has an idea, but it's so typical of him not to breathe a thing (he floats on with so much in his head, all in muted colors, all the time); i'm at sea, really  ---  but i don't give a shit, and he doesn't look like he's going to start anytime soon either, but would argue tooth and nail that i kissed him first, and if i did (i really don't remember), i don't regret it, because if i hadn't (assuming i really did) there wouldn't be an "US".

two years. who'dathunk we'd get this far? *kilig*

[Composed for his college manuscipt's About the Author, though i seriously doubt he actually included this writeup in it. I'm too chicken to hunt for the thing in the library archives.]

Darryl, as he is simply called, likes to think of himself as anything but ordinary.

He talks little, looks quietly on, and can sleep like it’s the only thing that matters.

He is inconspicuously intense, his thoughts always full of daydreams and chaotic color, of dogs and music and literature and Megastructures.

He can be recklessly candid and artfully oblivious, and yet, inadvertently kind and so, so unwittingly nice.