I don’t know if you have ever imagined
Your own teeth
Rotting and brown like that man on the bus
I know I have
Every now and then my molars fall out
Leaving the void
I imagine
That when my teeth are gone I will finally
be able to whistle
That I will
get dentures
(or maybe not)
That people don’t expect too much
of the
toothless
That people won’t expect too much
of me
I suppose I never asked you
what exactly it was you that imagined on the grey-sky-days
When my face became less interesting
than the rain outside
I guess it was a sign that we disagreed
You know
I imagine
That The Toothless have a lot less difficulty
falling in love
Except
of course
for dentists
May 16, 2015
May 16, 2015 at 7:40 PM UTC
in that moment
we
we were two bodies
two bodies lost in space
and I was a mind
floating in a body that kissed a face
and in that moment
we
we were two bodies
two bodies lost in space
and I believed
that we were two misunderstood
that for a moment understood
and in that moment
we
we were two bodies
two clichés
about to start a thousand more
and in that moment
more so than ever
nothing seemed to matter
because we were in that moment
just understanding each other
and the understanding was not a love thing,
a physical attraction thing
but a two lost bodies
two hurt bodies
two confused bodies trying to fix it all kind of thing
Apr 25, 2015
Apr 25, 2015 at 7:37 PM UTC
“Working your way to greater things”
He smiled, as he walked his dog
Down the river walk
Passing a waitress sweeping up cigarette butts
She smiled back
“That’s it”
He didn’t know how true he was.
She worked summers
To pay for the acting classes
and someday she wished to tell
of the day that man walked by and she replied
“That’s it”.
Nov 6, 2012
Nov 6, 2012 at 7:49 PM UTC
I could write your name
In the fog on the glass
Acquire a taste for those who pass.
A note on the margin
Of a torn out page
That slowly yellows with time and age.
But nothing will change.
The tears melt into smiles
Blue eyed rejoice, it's happiness
That crumbles as smiles drip from perfectness.
The trace of a figure
Upon a silver plane
We turn, return, remain the same.
And nothing ever seems to change.
Jun 29, 2011
Jun 29, 2011 at 1:10 PM UTC