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cr1090Poems
the long thin fingers of a girl of twenty-four wrapped tight around the handrail of the L-train bright-blue-eyed but for the temple bruise                    *he loves me                    and the mess I made* everything tattooed (everything everything) invisible on her cheeks and in the hollow of her shoulderblade her lower lip and wristbone but for the temple bruise darker by two shades a four-in-the-morning-night cottoning her tongue not-the-first of many and her long thin fingers white-knuckled little joys to light on the handrail not his warm-hot-ice-hard chest or his loud voice (woulda been real handsome if his eyes weren't so cold) but for the temple bruise                                                             *i                                                             fell                                                             in                                                             love* so many times that day                                                             the first sunday of its kind--not drenched                                                             in imperceptible airdrops                                                             the red-brown beard of the business suit                                                             and the freckles undermining the punk-rock                                                             vibe of the dark-eyed fox-girl                                                             but the thin white knuckles                                                             and the temple bruise                                                             --none more than her
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Jul 27, 2013
Jul 27, 2013 at 9:15 PM UTC
April Casey
the long thin fingers of a girl of twenty-four wrapped tight around the handrail of the L-train bright-blue-eyed but for the temple bruise                    *he loves me                    and the mess I made* everything tattooed (everything everything) invisible on her cheeks and in the hollow of her shoulderblade her lower lip and wristbone but for the temple bruise darker by two shades a four-in-the-morning-night cottoning her tongue not-the-first of many and her long thin fingers white-knuckled little joys to light on the handrail not his warm-hot-ice-hard chest or his loud voice (woulda been real handsome if his eyes weren't so cold) but for the temple bruise                                                             *i                                                             fell                                                             in                                                             love* so many times that day                                                             the first sunday of its kind--not drenched                                                             in imperceptible airdrops                                                             the red-brown beard of the business suit                                                             and the freckles undermining the punk-rock                                                             vibe of the dark-eyed fox-girl                                                             but the thin white knuckles                                                             and the temple bruise                                                             --none more than her
Written by
cr1090
American
Jul 27, 2013
Jul 27, 2013 at 9:15 PM UTC
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