she is
you are a poet in the quiet
moments, a whittler of
words, slowly paring down
to the meaning of it. don't
silence your voice with the busy-ness,
errands and agendas of little
consequence that will
or won't get done. breathe
and it is of more importance
than anything else you've ever done.
falling
this is my dream; i'm walking
down a corridor and i'm alone.
truly alone. there's the sound of my
feet padding across the tiled floor
and then nothing. silence like
gravity. it becomes black.
and i think of you.
but i'm not falling in
love with you, you so far away and
perfect in that distance. with
your details blurred like memory or a good
monet. and i keep filling in your
features, or weak spots, as if
i'm dreaming you in to existence.
yesterday morning
i am not a perfect memory, not so tidy you can
squish me in a picture book with a caption
telling everyone that i was once owned
by you. not so easily forgotten that you could
pass me by on the street like a beggar holding
out his hand for whatever it is you won't give.
not so carelessly classified; a good kisser, the best
blow-job, the least demanding. i will refuse to be
tossed out with the morning paper, the coffee grinds, the inevitable
grapefruit rind. you, in your small routine, will want to.
Anatomy Themed Happy Mail for Franny
1 year ago
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