I can't stop day dreaming about that little freckle
nestled in the hairs of your right eyebrow,
The way you scuff your Nikes across the asphalt,
How you taste like Moscato and always keep quarters in your pockets.
I love the hairs on the underside of your jaw,
the ones sleeping under your skin.
They're all wrapped up in you;
Just like me.
The way that gold chain sits on your chest gives me goosebumps.
I love to drag the heavy cross pendant
back and forth, when I'm lying across you.
I can feel it click... over every link.
Its tiny tremor wiggles through my hand.
I melt, when you cup my face
in your gently rugged paw.
So I just quiver
and try not to drip
through the cracks in your fingers
Jul 1, 2011
Jul 1, 2011 at 8:14 AM UTC
I can hear your thunderous eyelashes
pummel that strip of purple above your cheek.
Their echo tags along behind you as you drive
past fleeting carrion on the freeway.
But it's me you mourn for,
as you struggle through a knot in my hair.
Your already lost in our frosted-glass shenanigans.
A sticky smile trickles down your chin
and I can tell you found something familiar.
Your eyes tug at my sleeve,
Begging to drop it into my lap.
But that intimate hum we used to keep in our throats
slithered away through the low grass.
A long time ago.
So I shake my head slowly, and you know;
That this night won't last either.
Jul 1, 2011
Jul 1, 2011 at 8:13 AM UTC
The Earth tilted its axis
when I asked you
how your day went.
I could see it in your eyes-
You knew Atlas' knees had buckled.
You pulled yourself back into your head
-Like you were bracing yourself-
before shrugging.
I just rolled my eyes
and Marveled
at the sensation of falling
Jul 1, 2011
Jul 1, 2011 at 8:13 AM UTC
I was wearing stale cream lace
that used to be white,
drinking watered-down baileys
with too much ice.
My neck was wrapped in pearls
when I told you;
"Maybe later I'll show you my tattoos"
So you grabbed my wrist
a little too tight,
and let me waste your time.
You swept me to the dance floor
and guided me through
the choreography of our vibes.
You asked me to take my make-up off
and shimmy across your center fold.
So I looked you up
and lay you down
and happily obliged.
Jul 1, 2011
Jul 1, 2011 at 8:12 AM UTC
Sweet creature,
your wasting away.
Did you sleep?
Or did you die then?
Did you sink into his heart?
or dissolve completely?
Rejected, you are caught;
tangled in his hair.
And although grief
has unlocked your throat,
you are no louder than
the milky chatter of pearls.
So let Karma twist your body
however he likes,
May his greedy blue eyes
protect you.
Jul 1, 2011
Jul 1, 2011 at 8:12 AM UTC
Born of the earth;
He is a feast for the human soul.
His father is a velvet fungus,
who invented the cult of domesticity.
His mother is pregnant
with crisp autumn nights,
and speaks to him in
the language of the
sun and the moon.
He lives in ancient waters,
with the singing oracles
of passion, pain and pleasure.
He drives the heartland express
and his air freshener smells like musk.
He collects squished whispers from your ceilings,
and feeds them to you until Sunday morning
comes to take him back.
Jul 1, 2011
Jul 1, 2011 at 8:11 AM UTC
Those Ray Bans I begged you to get for me last summer. The ones that were always lopsided because I sat on them every time I threw myself into your passenger seat.
The nozzle we used to ***** onto the hose to fill up water balloons before we rode around in your car and hucked them at all those ******* bikers.
That glass pipe we bought at Amazing Adult Express. The one that changed colors every time we got high together.
...Not to mention the plastic pink **** you found in a bathroom at college and told me I could have.
My eyeliner pencil that never came off my face even with make up remover because I charred it with my lighter too many times.
The squished pack of Marb Menthols you plucked from my back pocket and wouldn't give back because *Smoking is for ***** girls.*
My virginity.
And the ironic 'Thank You For Not Smoking" sign you stole for me from the Comfort Inn the night after prom.
That last glass of wine at your family dinner you drank for me because It would have been too much.
The purple lace bra and ******* I cooked you dinner in last Valentines day. The night I let you do me on the kitchen counter.
And that Needham Football shirt I love to sleep in. It used to be yours but I think we would both agree, it should be mine now
Jul 1, 2011
Jul 1, 2011 at 8:09 AM UTC
How many times has the summer stuck to the back of your thighs
as you peel them away from your leather bucket seats,
Clung to you
with it’s skipping rocks and carpenter bees
and there’s too many dandelions on the lawn.
How many times has the citrus ******* sunshine
drifted through your rose-gold Aviators
and touched the crispy skin around the corners of your eyes,
made it crinkle when you laughed.
Count the times you padded barefoot into the Dairy-mart
just for the AC and the way the linoleum tiles
felt on your feet
And add that to the number of nights
the whole town smelled like honeysuckle.
Divide by the amount your pores the humidity clogged,
And tell me how long it took you
to kneel in the baby’s breath
and beg for more.
Jul 1, 2011
Jul 1, 2011 at 8:08 AM UTC
I slept with one of my teachers in high school.
We used to barter with fleeting, salty kisses
behind the musty curtain of the old auditorium.
The whiskers he'd been shaving since I was seven
always chaffed my chin a little. In a good way.
We coated ourselves in sputtered dust under the stage
when we were supposed to be building the set for 'Annie'.
He would cradle my thighs in his think hands
and slowly peel the clothes away.
He put me on top
of the chorus' baby grand
and made love to me like I was grown
Because,
I was the eyelash swimming in his retina
and he couldn't look away.
Until snickering waves of adultery
swept around the room
and made the springs
of the folding chairs
squeak.
I felt the electric panic ripple through his body
before it pooled in his eyes
and dripped down his face like syrup.
Jul 1, 2011
Jul 1, 2011 at 8:04 AM UTC
~
Abraham Lincoln used to lie.
So did my mother.
Remember that time when we were little? The night we wrote our names on the sidewalk with the guts of a thousand mashed-up fireflies? I asked. The night the birds and their babies forgot to sleep? The night we felt free because we had nothing left to burn? Do you remember the way the sunrise dribbled over the horizon and leaked into our tattered converse sneakers?
As soon as you said Yes
I knew you were a liar too
Because
I made that memory up.
When you run your gritty hands through my hair, is that a lie too? I bet you’re just pretending when you put my head on our chest and breathe slowly so I’ll sleep sounder. I know the stale sweat sitting on our skin isn’t real. I guess it doesn’t matter. Because
One hundred years
is just a gasp
and a
breath
And you make me gasp every time I let you lie with me. I pant and heave and choke as your stories wiggle their way across my tongue and stick to the inside of my throat. And by then the truth doesn’t matter. You’re either a memory or a mirage or a dream and I don’t care. All I need are those
Goose Bumps
you leave scattered
across
my
sheets.
Jul 1, 2011
Jul 1, 2011 at 8:01 AM UTC