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Andrew Philip Aug 21
What good are these words
in my ears
in my head.
There are always
too many of them,
always never enough
of them.
surely won’t
bring back
the Amazon,
they won’t save
the pig
from the knife.
They will not do justice
in capturing
how much I miss the
girl I’ve never seen,
let alone met,
let alone kissed,
let alone left.
How I miss
the place I’ve never been
filled with streets
I’ve never walked,
full of puddles
that reflect the green stop light,
the neon light
in the old smokey bar
I never visited
to quiet
the words
in my head.
The words.
Always too many,
always never enough.
Andrew Philip Aug 21
I think it’s finally time
to get glasses.
Maybe I’m just getting older
or maybe I’ve stared
into the sun
for too long.
I can’t make out
her face
as she feels
for ripened avocados
across the produce section
from me.
But maybe I don’t want to,
the mystery,
I dream
pleasant fallacies,
I’d rather not know
the color of her eyes
or the mess of
old newspapers
in her skull.
The second
I’m close enough
to be able to make out
her smile
I’m done.
I don’t want to see
Andrew Philip Aug 12
In a past life
I think I was
an elevator operator.
Like one
back in the olden
Going up.
And down.
And up again.
Back down.
Talking about
the weather
with people
who were somewhat
even though
I saw most of them
And when I first started,
I liked the music,
but anything played
over and over again
starts to sound like hell.
It was an elevator
I had never gotten off.
And I know I was
an elevator operator
in a past life
because it wasn’t
so long ago.
Now I’m somewhat
more of a crane operator,
or a train conductor,
the card in my own
back pocket,
or the time it takes
the occipital lobe
of a child
to register the light
in the pupil
that paints the picture
of everything new.
Andrew Philip Aug 11
And I’d go to church in the mountains
and sing praises with the crows in the pines
to a god most misunderstood,
rarely seen or heard;
the lynx of the feeling in my sternum,
the missing word in my vocabulary that
has bought permanent real estate
on the tip of my tongue.
And then she looks at you
with Medusa eyes
that turn you to stone.
You lie there naked
arms and legs woven together
like sacred silk,
the warm blanket of god,
the purring lynx.
This whole thing
might be harder
if we were more aware.
Ignorance is my EpiPen.
Tell me stars are just fireflies
putting on a show,
all for me.
Convince me
that you are not from here,
but here alone.
Persuade me
there is an after party
where you will meet me
and we’ll take the tram
out of the skylight
and fall asleep together
in a bed of telephone wires
carrying words of honey.
Assure me that rivers
stay the same,
that days never end,
the nights don’t either,
that the world is static,
and that I’ll feel this way forever.
Lie to me if you have to,
but do it with the same
sugar cane lips
you press to my shoulder.
Andrew Philip Jul 21
We lay there naked
loving and laughing,
soundlessly saying
sweet things
with delicate finger tips,
escaping, for a moment,
from the fire
burning the world
outside the bedroom
Andrew Philip Jul 20
Light pollution
may be
a necessary evil.
But beyond that,
the only other necessary evil
I know of is love.
My heart goes far away,
when I think about her.
We are rubber bands
laid next to another
amongst many others
on the bungee rope
that ties the sun
to the earth.
This rope is strong,
but it stretches
and constricts
in a way that
brings the winter
and the summer,
the day and the night,
darkness and light;
you are the martini
of my Monday.
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