Sunday afternoon, Oslo.
Pavements fit for ice skating
Rather than her high heels.
I am crutch.
Sun-goes-down red onto
The solid wetness.
As we reach the tram stop,
She throws a gaze directly into
My eyes, fingertip finding the outline
Of the fresh tattoo on my chest
Barely visible at the edge of the
White tank top under my
Alice in Chains tribute-style
Flannel shirt.
*"I love the way it covers up her
Name,"* I know she
Thinks but doesn't
Say, and I
Agree. Sometimes the temple walls
Of a man's body's skin are no
More sacred than the
Bucket of paint sitting ready
Outside a basement bar's
Gentlemen's toilet cubicle, just
Waiting for
The
Janitor.
Feb 8, 2015
Feb 8, 2015 at 1:30 PM UTC
Sunday afternoon, Oslo.
Pavements fit for ice skating
Rather than her high heels.
I am crutch.
Sun-goes-down red onto
The solid wetness.
As we reach the tram stop,
She throws a gaze directly into
My eyes, fingertip finding the outline
Of the fresh tattoo on my chest
Barely visible at the edge of the
White tank top under my
Alice in Chains tribute-style
Flannel shirt.
*"I love the way it covers up her
Name,"* I know she
Thinks but doesn't
Say, and I
Agree. Sometimes the temple walls
Of a man's body's skin are no
More sacred than the
Bucket of paint sitting ready
Outside a basement bar's
Gentlemen's toilet cubicle, just
Waiting for
The
Janitor.
