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around the time Hurricane Matthew was tearing through Florida, it was 10:34pm in Divide-- A Coors bottle pressed into your beard, settled on your bottom lip in contemplation a boyish reverie spun between us when you spoke softly relaying the genealogy of the Hatfields & Mccoys, Ole Ran'l, Devil Anse piping in, your accent seeps through real Midwestern like--stops when you're on about prayer trees and La Llorona But I was deeply introspective, heavily burdened by a Randy Travis song how earlier that morning your fingers had found their way around my hips--         mine around your waistband, down your spine         a helpless explorer driven across the mainland        transversing shoulder blades, fascinated by chains         around your neck, nooses, playthings or jewelry          how around 3 am your gravely voice sought me          out across a sea of torrid thoughts to ask if I was cold yes. probably. and when we start the decline, tripping lazily over moss clumps dead grass, fallen trees, I storm and plow ahead because when in doubt, race yourself. Sheltered by the truck gate, you've come up ahead and stand in front of me, unassuming both hands complacent-- so I ask you to kiss me and there's a fiddle playin' in my ears, a highway of country streamin' through my veins, or, something like that.
0
Nov 20, 2016
Nov 20, 2016 at 4:51 PM UTC
the stragglers.
around the time Hurricane Matthew was tearing through Florida, it was 10:34pm in Divide-- A Coors bottle pressed into your beard, settled on your bottom lip in contemplation a boyish reverie spun between us when you spoke softly relaying the genealogy of the Hatfields & Mccoys, Ole Ran'l, Devil Anse piping in, your accent seeps through real Midwestern like--stops when you're on about prayer trees and La Llorona But I was deeply introspective, heavily burdened by a Randy Travis song how earlier that morning your fingers had found their way around my hips--         mine around your waistband, down your spine         a helpless explorer driven across the mainland        transversing shoulder blades, fascinated by chains         around your neck, nooses, playthings or jewelry          how around 3 am your gravely voice sought me          out across a sea of torrid thoughts to ask if I was cold yes. probably. and when we start the decline, tripping lazily over moss clumps dead grass, fallen trees, I storm and plow ahead because when in doubt, race yourself. Sheltered by the truck gate, you've come up ahead and stand in front of me, unassuming both hands complacent-- so I ask you to kiss me and there's a fiddle playin' in my ears, a highway of country streamin' through my veins, or, something like that.
(c) Brooke Otto 2016 around the time Hurricane Matthew was happening, You were, too.
broooke
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broooke
Nov 20, 2016
Nov 20, 2016 at 4:51 PM UTC
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