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and the wind chills my bones and every time i look at my watch i remember all the times when we sat on the grass laughing, watching the afternoon sun arcing across the sky like a shooting star.
Literature
before
a little while ago
maybe a couple of months or something
i wasn't drinking ; instead i was
waking up to you
every morning you would stretch
and your spine would move and i felt it all over
your skin stretched into the sun and
i saw it everywhere
but guess what, that shit was gold and
gold doesn't last and you didn't last.
i got boring and you got mean.
and you're less of a gypsy and more of
a woman and i know if i called you up tonight
said hey baby come home
how did we get here baby i'm crying on the
floor drinking lime pepsi
and this goddamn pepsi is flat. so why don't
you come home. just for the night.
you would say you h
Literature
Undelivered
or:
how to write to peter
i. sprinkle pixie dust on
one feather of a whisper
ii. blow a kiss to nudge
the dictations of your heart
from a fourth-story windowsill
iii. crawl (sloth-toed) onto the roof
& stretch your third eye
to watch your letter cross state lines
iv. shiver restlessly until
v. suddenly!
vi. you feel your feather of a whisper
nestle in his concave
mailbox:
the space where his left collarbone meets his neck strings
"if i were you i would want me back"
Literature
curb-sitters.
i ask her what she wants to be when she grows up and she tells me she already has, so i say no, what do you want to be when you grow up and she says an octopus, an eight-legged creature of the deep. solitary, strong.
i tell her that's the kind of answer a child would give but she tilts her head and smiles and tells me that if she hasn't grown up already, she must still be a child.
i admit, my long-legged gloss-toned friend has a point, but then i also tell her she's a smart ass, because she is. i change the subject. i say let's look at the moon and she pulls her face and tells me she would rather look at dirt.
dirt, y
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