The summer freckles the boys, tucking in the grasses in their masses, forgetting what their mothers sang. Their love burns in blood-stream blaze, becomes heat and nothing else and nothing else. Our sun set late, so they pray for consenting girls that feed wrists into freckled hands to brand themselves, bruised and brown.
A response to the line "The grasses forgetting their blaze, and consenting to brown" from 'A Sunset of the City' by Gwendolyn Brooks. The line is embedded in the last words of each line.
The freckled girl screams 'out **** spot' thinking they're part of some Higher plot.
They are. They are. They are. For this sky would be nothing without the stars Imagine Orion's belt without each datum (and I say this without sarcasm) Think of the ocean that'd be a chasm. Without the drops - nothing happens
remember when you laid me back and told me you needed to kiss every inch of my body, you needed to feel the skin that begged for you under your lips, no matter what words I string together everything about that night sounds like sinful lust when in all reality your lips kissed every bruise, cut, and bad memory away in the most innocent way possible and when you turned me over and ran your fingers down my spine before placing chapped lips of heaven on my shoulders releasing every pounding rhythmic weighing stress that knotted in my bones I knew at that moment I would spend forever in the miserable regret that being eerie to commitment would leave because no matter how much we loved, screamed and craved each other, the time could never be more wrong and I hope that one day my lips can kiss every broken freckle on your skin again.
You told me that you have Over one million hair follicles And I believe you. I do. But, if it’s okay, I’ve never counted To one million before. I heard it takes a really long time, But after I count all of the spots The hair grows out of you, I want to count all your freckles And connect them like constellations. You’re just like the universe to me And each freckle is a star. There are lots of stars we can’t See with the naked eye, But I want to find those too. If that’s okay.
My freckle flecked love stirs the speckled paintbrush soft, dousing it's hairs so that, as I pull it back, all the bristles bend seamlessly, and when I let go they ping forwards, smattering a scattering of stars, onto snowy canvas.