ChazMoSaz

we inhale the romanticism of hooded cemetery kids smoking cigarettes pretending they are not dead. you were always so sure about my uncertainty, you watched all my pick up lines drop things into open graves meant for us. your eyes always wandered down thoughtful leaf-strewn paths. i wanted to ask you if i could follow but i came alone this time i remember our innocence in the static b e t w e e n stars, think about how youth without you is th- awing out the lines in my whittled-out eyes i look to the hooded cemetery kids, wonder what we'd have been like if we grew up as nothings, like them. teenage nothings with chiseled marble in our vo

you are quiet sometimes. your nose disappears then with your thumbs, toes, and middle as you curl on the leather or whatever window seats are, i am sure you know because your pinky covers the title of it time and time again. and your attention disappears too often; you see me sometimes across the aisle and shelves but i lose you more times than you me and it feels almost lousy to lose you to a collection of inanimate things that romance you between the covers effortlessly and thoroughly and i admit that i become jealous sometimes of those times spent not with me, but they are much more interesting than i could ever b