Dec 2010

can we live in cold corners
where no one can see how short I have cut my hair
we will have pillows that share our names
we lay our heads to rest

Im thinner than I have ever been
and I love the way my bones stick out
when you touch any part of me
I curve
and theres my spine
like mountains in the middle of a flat plain

We will have few clothes
and rarely speak to anyone
me and you will be just like this
happier and sadder than we would have ever
thought to miss
you lay down after your long work hours
or maybe we wont work
we will just sit there
and we will

there sits an ashtray with a Buddha
on that tiny coffee table we brought back
with us from our previous life
it stands on its brittle legs
so strong

the print on the wall behind it
is our most valued vintage pattern
who would have ever known we would
have come to any decision
I smile when I peek at it
and close my eyes like a child
who has been caught staring at forbidden
things, with butterflies in my stomach
at the feeling of something so new

I love those flowers on that dress
the one that makes the collar bone look like
a stake in the tower of Notre Dame
Gothic artistry
like that
my eyes cant deny you
its so beautiful
and your weak ankles
and these strong features
pale skin
and the black eyes that
have overcome so many
the small hands
the heavy palms
that cradle

we will cook simple things
small things
pretty things
to fill our minds

we are so unpretentious
our house
and us
within us we chain the small riots

we are virgins
we are sluts

the lights are bright and
different colors
but we come back to the house
the lights are dim
the sofa has an old print
its smells like lavender
under the sheets
and burnt candle wax
and all those spell tuning

we run in
and corrupt to the floor
dropping like dead bodies
and watch the smoke of the incense
we left on, reminiscing in the air around us
and missing our presence

classic playing in the background always
we are soft together
like the smooth painful tune
on our favorite artists lips
the gentle stroke of the painters brush
when he comes to the canvas to weep
when he has been defeated

together we are

I lay my head on your shoulder
so lightly
you can barely feel it
and I fall asleep to the scent of your

midnight prague
Written by
midnight prague
Please log in to view and add comments on poems