"ouvert" poems - Hello Poetry

I was sitting on the steps of the wrong building — two blocks over from The Vermont awash in gold and the noble lights of the Avenue. I was drunk, or, there-abouts. Isobel was coming. I was sitting on the steps of the wrong building, pulling the collar of my Burberry coat against my jaw and ears; it was November and the concierge came out to ask me if I’d like to come inside and wait — “No, I’m good, Sir.” “Thank you, Sir.” What was two blocks? I pull out my cellphone — “Where are you?” “My mom’s drunk.” Code for: “I’m playing therapist.” I’m almost out — out of brain cells (really?” out of patience out of love out of “it” out of time — but, the curious thing is, I’m never almost out of money. I notice him when he stops on the step I sit on. He’s a sterling silver chain, the thin, delicate kind that breaks with a soft tug. He looks down at me, eyes the colour of darkened ice, not softened by the yellow lights raining down from under the awning. “Do you live here?” “Where is “here”?” He laughs. Smiles. “The Florence.” He’s beautiful, the way a poppy is beautiful, transparent, saying so much with his flushed cheeks and dark eyes, so full of life and resembling something or, someone, dead — “Lest we forget,” whispered the corpse, ouvert, in the slush of Alsace-Lorraine. He sits beside me, shoulder warm, firm — he’s a guy, but he’s so ******* beautiful — I want to touch him, brush his cheek as if he’s a rose protruding from the briar, the thorny path — not pick him, because he’s too beautiful, too tragic, and I don’t want to **** him; — “Where do you live?” He’s smoking like a flower. I want to lie. I don’t. “The Vermont.” His expression doesn’t change, remains soft, his eyes stay ice. He looks away. I’ll uproot him and plant him in richer soil, I won’t be looking into ice, no more mirror, but, the sky after rain, the soft fragrant grey, so much light. “What’s that? Two blocks?” “Yeah.” He rubs his face. He has sensitive skin, red upon contact with the cuff of his wool coat. “I’ll walk you.” “Please.” I stand up slowly and breathe in cold air and vapour. Out comes alcohol. “You’re drunk?” “I was.” “Your laces are undone.” “Are they?” I look down at him, he’s laughing, lowering his head at my knees and I feel something despite myself — warmth in my chest, accompanied by a warmth in my abdomen, tensing. “I’ll fix them.” I watch him, shoulders moving under his coat, and I imagine him higher, on his knees and, a little higher, stop myself with: “I’m not a child.” He stops — I stop him. He looks up; his lashes are like glass. “I want to kiss you.”

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Apr 10, 2013

Apr 10, 2013 at 5:08 PM UTC

tl

The Florence

I was sitting on the steps of the wrong building — two blocks over from The Vermont awash in gold and the noble lights of the Avenue. I was drunk, or, there-abouts. Isobel was coming. I was sitting on the steps of the wrong building, pulling the collar of my Burberry coat against my jaw and ears; it was November and the concierge came out to ask me if I’d like to come inside and wait — “No, I’m good, Sir.” “Thank you, Sir.” What was two blocks? I pull out my cellphone — “Where are you?” “My mom’s drunk.” Code for: “I’m playing therapist.” I’m almost out — out of brain cells (really?” out of patience out of love out of “it” out of time — but, the curious thing is, I’m never almost out of money. I notice him when he stops on the step I sit on. He’s a sterling silver chain, the thin, delicate kind that breaks with a soft tug. He looks down at me, eyes the colour of darkened ice, not softened by the yellow lights raining down from under the awning. “Do you live here?” “Where is “here”?” He laughs. Smiles. “The Florence.” He’s beautiful, the way a poppy is beautiful, transparent, saying so much with his flushed cheeks and dark eyes, so full of life and resembling something or, someone, dead — “Lest we forget,” whispered the corpse, ouvert, in the slush of Alsace-Lorraine. He sits beside me, shoulder warm, firm — he’s a guy, but he’s so ******* beautiful — I want to touch him, brush his cheek as if he’s a rose protruding from the briar, the thorny path — not pick him, because he’s too beautiful, too tragic, and I don’t want to **** him; — “Where do you live?” He’s smoking like a flower. I want to lie. I don’t. “The Vermont.” His expression doesn’t change, remains soft, his eyes stay ice. He looks away. I’ll uproot him and plant him in richer soil, I won’t be looking into ice, no more mirror, but, the sky after rain, the soft fragrant grey, so much light. “What’s that? Two blocks?” “Yeah.” He rubs his face. He has sensitive skin, red upon contact with the cuff of his wool coat. “I’ll walk you.” “Please.” I stand up slowly and breathe in cold air and vapour. Out comes alcohol. “You’re drunk?” “I was.” “Your laces are undone.” “Are they?” I look down at him, he’s laughing, lowering his head at my knees and I feel something despite myself — warmth in my chest, accompanied by a warmth in my abdomen, tensing. “I’ll fix them.” I watch him, shoulders moving under his coat, and I imagine him higher, on his knees and, a little higher, stop myself with: “I’m not a child.” He stops — I stop him. He looks up; his lashes are like glass. “I want to kiss you.”