Your hair is thick and dark
evergreen branches that glide
against lilac petals
made of powdered sugar.
I wish your hands were not so rough,
when you mold my body out of clay
you leave divots, not as deep
as tire tracks in snow
but tiny deer prints
left behind in secret
the kind where the mystery
makes you follow them into the thicket.
Strum that song again,
the one you played, laughing
at the silliness of knowing
every chord, even though we both
silently love it. Don't talk to me
about intimacy problems
because you know I would have
loved you, more
then children with fried dough
the kind that comes from county
fairs
and you can't look at me
like that, with painful eyes
'cause we're both guilty.
What happens to women without
men?
Running fingers over bare
hills, hoping to once again
be covered with fur trees
thick and dark. So catch me
with those that match
your pea coat that smells
sweetly of cigarettes
and stories only known
by haylofts and cotton pillows.
Aug 11, 2011
Aug 11, 2011 at 8:11 PM UTC
Your hair is thick and dark
evergreen branches that glide
against lilac petals
made of powdered sugar.
I wish your hands were not so rough,
when you mold my body out of clay
you leave divots, not as deep
as tire tracks in snow
but tiny deer prints
left behind in secret
the kind where the mystery
makes you follow them into the thicket.
Strum that song again,
the one you played, laughing
at the silliness of knowing
every chord, even though we both
silently love it. Don't talk to me
about intimacy problems
because you know I would have
loved you, more
then children with fried dough
the kind that comes from county
fairs
and you can't look at me
like that, with painful eyes
'cause we're both guilty.
What happens to women without
men?
Running fingers over bare
hills, hoping to once again
be covered with fur trees
thick and dark. So catch me
with those that match
your pea coat that smells
sweetly of cigarettes
and stories only known
by haylofts and cotton pillows.
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