Our shadows, all gyrating in slow motion,
It tasted like gin. That night spent raging at
the penny arcade - juniper and pine and Ago.
Friday night, East Crawford Avenue, warm.
We were Christ-like figures wearing velvet,
and you spent your night in a chicken coup.

We can live together on
the hardwood floors of
my parents’ house, stay
up late, eating apples, and
sifting through pomegranate
sludge. Your beard will be
sticky, and my fingertips will
be cinnamon sugared, like
some candied catharsis,
and you can lick them clean.

Little infant Icarus, I will
turn you into constellations.
Rip you apart, spread you
across the sky, and pray hard
for clear nights.
Oh! the terrible things.
I make no apologies for
laughter in churches.
I am the forrest floor, and
I am a burning hill, and

I will not die for you.

Chlorine smells on the first floor,
And kids getting drunk on the second.
Saturday's daughters rolled up and strung out on echoing laughter in
shadowy classrooms. Then those ankle bruises in the forest green hallway -
We were drinking gin in school when   I first forgot those days would end.
In catholic plaid we kissed the kindest boys, I swear to God!
We were sparkplug babies wearing sweaters, and dammnit,
We Were Kind.
Kazoo choruses, and days spent standing side by side in a mirror.
We were all tin foil newborns with
Aluminum vertebrae and electric fingertips.

Now this is my dormant reconciliation,
And you're my living ghost.

You:
Text book Manic Pixie Dreamgirl, all blonde hair, blue eyes, and have you heard this song yet?
You call blood pomegranate sludge, and tattoo your toes with safety pins and spoiled ink.
Your freckles are corks, we understand, and your pain outweighs your grief.
You once found solace at the bottom of a bottle, now it lies crumpled in a lover's hand.
Bad kids! We were, but never bad enough for you.
Not twenty-five miles per hour, beer in hand, the sun is setting, we might not last till morning, but we'll go on driving anyway, bad.
You are cross-country dazzling, where-will-she-go-next? Paint brush lusting, vintage sweater.
You have spark plugs in your ears.

You know what he said about drinking Coca-Cola,
How it's better than Jesus and how you're better than the saints.
Yes, and you were born a tin foil baby with an
Aluminium vertebrae and electric fingertips.

And with your elbows on the table, you will love me until morning,
And not a minute more. It's the awake verse the dormant, and
All those things you miss when you fall asleep. How strange it is.

So if I could call you that would be a fix, my ***** veins left crying on
Fresh linens. I'll hold off until our next drunken encounter and you
Will play to social construct, while I whisper sentiments of beauty -

Some things just can't wait.

And on that first night,
In the movie theater
I cried because I knew
You'd break my bones
Crack my chest and tattoo
My little heart with a drawing
Of your neck.
And when we got stuck in the mud
Driving home from the show,
It was all wonderstruck dirt
Gravel hands and
I stood in front of your
Headlights - deliberate illusion,
Creating a vision that went without notice
It was my own fault, getting involved with anyone but a mortal.

Bite my fingertips till they callous
Or better yet, bleed.

And why don't we go walking on airplane wings?

Life is a death march, and we pass
The time making cave drawings.

February chatters in the
hollow of my cheeks.
Sounds like hallway whispers,
we went out with a flash.
Like nothing, comparisons pale in
your subterranean brainwaves.
And I am so very strung out on
Your Hair.

Pieces of glass fall from the film
above our church steeple skulls.
And sometimes this weather is
far too temperate, too mild to taste.
But it's tastes. And so it's metallic bolts
painting our tongues, some new and
glorious rendezvous held just past your lips.

Your mouth is a cave I crawl in to.