On my pillow in broken English And black ink. A Fitzgerald quote dances in the breeze of the half-cracked window. The clothes outside dangle Hot and crisp from the City’s sun.
This city has its own sun That beats down hard Against the pavement. Hearts beating hard against the pavement Of our souls and ribs.
If Fitzgerald was right Then“they slipped briskly into an intimacy from which they never recovered.” Slipped and
Scars stain our hearts And knees burn Like the sun beats down On the pavement Of our memories.
But then again, Perhaps it was Keats that had it right-
BOLD lover- “Heard melodies are sweet But those unheard are sweeter.” Like you in my sweater.
Ode in a Spanish email Plays on repeat, Trapped in my head. It’s that song that keeps be writing About you In this little book Trapped in this little book Like the etchings Keats admired Trapped in the moment before Their first kiss. Forever trapped, Lingering in their longing.
I’ll lick the wounds From quickly turned pages The sour blood of this longing Tormented by time “Heard melodies are sweet But those unheard are sweeter” Like a nagging child Taunting- Thumbs in ears, Tongue out.
I wish my skin was sewn together With the threads of that sweater So you could wear me Again and again.