I. there is a sort of ephemeral longing
you can only find in the heartbreaks of grown-up girls
(old tracks, cleaned room, messy hair, simplicity)
thinking back on the glowing days of adolescence
when bad flicks brought you places
IV. back then, the anticipation of being older was
almost tangible enough to cut
in halves, fourths and one-tenths
now the mere thought turns you off;
lemon cakes taste as bitter as the sugar
poured in your third afternoon coffee
V-III. your love of chocolate was left at the beach
along with pink heart-shaped sunglasses
(i rented that semicentennial-old russian novel
to convince myself that dreams aren't real
and until the skin breaks, your past stays intact
at least that's what H.H. taught me)
VI. looking back, your childhood was not as bad
as you make it out to be, truth be told
fascinated by your infatuation with the
place where you always belonged;
II. today the world is cold, punctuated
by the sore troubles of reality
that friends, majors and late-night talks
both compose and mend
and heaven knows how much you have to say.
Aug 8, 2013
Aug 8, 2013 at 2:12 AM UTC
I. there is a sort of ephemeral longing
you can only find in the heartbreaks of grown-up girls
(old tracks, cleaned room, messy hair, simplicity)
thinking back on the glowing days of adolescence
when bad flicks brought you places
IV. back then, the anticipation of being older was
almost tangible enough to cut
in halves, fourths and one-tenths
now the mere thought turns you off;
lemon cakes taste as bitter as the sugar
poured in your third afternoon coffee
V-III. your love of chocolate was left at the beach
along with pink heart-shaped sunglasses
(i rented that semicentennial-old russian novel
to convince myself that dreams aren't real
and until the skin breaks, your past stays intact
at least that's what H.H. taught me)
VI. looking back, your childhood was not as bad
as you make it out to be, truth be told
fascinated by your infatuation with the
place where you always belonged;
II. today the world is cold, punctuated
by the sore troubles of reality
that friends, majors and late-night talks
both compose and mend
and heaven knows how much you have to say.
Request permission to use this poem