Hair golden as wheat that sparkles in the sun.
It falls down her back and curls
perfectly in all the right places.
It flows an spreads out
as she dances with bare feet
then falls neatly back in its spot when she stops and stares.
Her piercing green eyes
(can we pretend they're green?)
cut through the soul and make you think you've met her before.
In a dream
or a fantasy
or a memory.
Her lips, red as a rose, lightly pursed
right before she smiles.
Then they come together once more as she gets serious.
Like two rose petals.
Her gentle touch and light movements.
The way her eyes flutter when she sleeps.
Vulnerable.

The only time you'll see me vulnerable.

She becomes I and I become she and,
as my dress turns from ink to blue and back again,
walk again through the castle then fall asleep with me.
Perfection.

It started hot and passionate and blinding.
Then it ran,
ran from me
faster than the alpine highway or
an Afro over your cute lisp.

And a bus leaves for 13 colonies and 14 days and
pictures are all I have.
Colorful but in
50 shades of grey.
Then never a breath from you
on the home front.
And disappointment marks my eyes.

Running all over town with eyes
like video cameras and
minds like a metal detector.
We wish we could be a fly on the wall or a plant in the earth or a new hair on your chin.
All moments,
every moment,
we know.
My fiend.
Detect this on your police detector.
Little blue Honda that looks tan in the sun.

White Camry.
Up the street then back down.
Serpentine through the neighborhoods
hoping to see a familiar body,
but not be seen ourselves.
Every day
till July 15.
Then waving goodbye to an empty house I once knew.
Where I stayed too long and talked too much about nothing.
Too many memories to remember and flash before my heart.
Then I blink and they're gone and we've passed it.

And finally I've mimicked Taylor Swift
and wrote a song about Paris.
And boys in Montreal.
Late hours. Early hours.
All hours.
Spent engulfed in our own music from our minds.

Military men. Marines that cheat and break hearts.
not enough sleep.
Lots of tire on asphalt.
Up and down and up and down and back again.
Not enough French
and a brand new white iPhone.

And the sun sets on another day
and still the one thing I want
doesn't go my way.

The wind whistles past my ear drums and
I am surrounded by green wind chimes,
it seems.
Crack, crack, rustle.
and a pile of fake animal bones.
Climb on them,
to the very top until the world is yours and you can see all the way back to the beginning.
Elephant Graveyard.
Four babies that bathe in the dirt and breathe in
white life.
Blue for you and you and you.
But not you.
Brown. Odd one out.
Come lie on the chests of
almost mothers and
fall into darkness.
The epitome of beauty is to relive the dust bowl?
I suppose to
the plaid men it is.
But not the depression or the
black and white photographs.
Lightning flashes inside green
canvas and
five girls scream with glee
and two girls' recognition
brings deathless happiness.
And with glee, fight back the urge to run a marathon.
To run home.
To run through dust and sage brush
and dung and
dry dry dry.
Eyes watering for lush green
in this,
the epitome of beauty.

Let's get one thing straight--
I am not obsessed with you.

I was in love with you.

And there is a
difference.

This brick.
This bulging pocket of blue jean.
This song player, noise maker, memory saver.
Eternal space.
Secret keeper.
It's my life, this brick.
You think you can touch it? have it? hold it?
Let my secrets run along your nerves and scurry in between your brain cells?
No.
I would rather die an ignominious death and
rot a thousand years in the sea than
watch your eyes scan my life.
Search the deep caverns of my soul.
Watch your heart scream and hear the echoes of blood curdling madness.
Your fingers would burn as
you caress the suggestive sentences.
back and forth and
it comes naturally.
Sad truths.
Depressing facts.
You'd rather pour acid on your
eyes
and have them turn to
dust
than read the conversations,
I swear.
The ability to chirp
and make it appear as if it came from my own mouth?
Ridiculous.
I do not believe in ventriloquism.
Weak images
your eyes cannot behold.
I would feel exposed.
Like "The Woman" bathed
in wool and cloth and silk.
And under memos?
The secret to how my brain works.
Why would I desire you to know the short cut
to my vulnerability?
The grey box to my wiring and the scalpel to my heart.
It's the way my soul thinks.
And you can't know that.
This brick, bulge, memory saver,
it's my secret keeper.
The fidelius charm cast over my own self.
The secret is kept within
the very soul of my secret keeper.
Giving the password up is worthy of death.
You will never hold its life on your hands.
You will never see my
soul.
You will never know my
heart.

I heard your voice today,

And then I missed your arms.