this hallway smells dimly of an intangible childhood memory
(one of those times when i was eight
and wandering this hallway barefoot and silent
pausing in the spots where the sunlight
warmed the tile)
but its too full of oddities that shouldn't be there
to recreate the ambiance of an eight-year-old-afternoon
and i'm too dusty with vice to be pure again.
so i suppose that's why it only takes shape of a memory;
nothing more than shadows and scents
to remind me of the beauty of some sort of innocence.

but the warmth of the tile
is like sand between my toes,
shifting like soft accusations beneath my weight.
and the grains of evidence
nestled within the threads of my favorite sweater
are longing for the burrs that were picked gently from my hair
and remembering the times they felt the friction
of red carpet and couch cusions
and soaked up the heat beading salty on my skin.

the roughness between those tiles
is the unintentional weight pojected by that presence
awkwardly intimidating and blonde.
thin and compressed by an isolated energy on guard
and yellow skin that hangs and clings to the bones its draped over
dragging the weight of unspoken reason
and newly intoxicated, alcoholic secrecy behind it
everywhere it goes.
but its thin, unlike me,
and held pieces that i can only touch second hand.

or the way the air was when i would walk in the door
bidding goodnight to the headlights
that stole my heart in a beam through the glass,
passing months at a time to wait for that lost sexual tension
to return to my veins again through words, friendly and unsure.
it never filtered out, and still returns to that ottoman sometimes
in the evenings over summers, or follows me down lake shore drive
some saturday afternoons. its sometimes floating in the water
at lake bluff beach when the moon takes the liberty
of stripping to skin, laughter, and chills.
it was always there, even after november took its hold on me.

i chew on genuine hearts when i have them in my teeth,
its an odd oral fixation
letting words escape that i can't discern the meaning to.
but i'm too selfish to be real, or be realized
and its too warm of a sunbeam to walk away from
though it would burn out
if it were to realize that the sky was nothing but empty.
i like that warmth too much though
creating substance for it to rest on, and at the same time
fearing the way i sink to let it fit
just right
and never want to leave.

its why i fill myself with this sweetly salted dissatisfaction
consuming everything unnecessary in my path
in hopes that it might weigh down the confessions
that take to floating when i'm drunk or sleeping or alone
so that eight-year-old conscience of mine
might never find it
because its buried under too much sobriety
and guarded by too much inhibition to discover
and dig up, but too impulsive to be stopped
before i can bury and drown it again
(but i'm still feeling empty and unsatisfied).
so i'll continue until its covered and shows no traces
of unconcealable wandering to a painful exposure.

forgive me, but i guess its better that way...