once filled with days filled with laughter, now holding nothing. i let our shared history spill out onto the sidewalk and freeze, ice over slick and opaque, so that maybe a passer-by would trip on it (and the certain somethings(more) obscured underneath). (less)
the shenanigans were always different, like geological activity - a volcano - an earthquake - a tsunami. a disruption, was the word. you said it with gritted teeth and a wicked smile. you said it and you clenched your(more) fist walking outside the school after hours, it was just the two of us and the biting winter cold in the middle of March.
always something different: stealing stop signs, graffiti - nothing crude, you insisted. the swoop of a treble clef. the first stanza of Prufock, etherized on the granite tableau of the highway overpass. you drew maps to secret and abandoned places.
we stole your mom's car, and didn't dent it, but it smelled like gin for weeks.
i thought you were wild, but it turns out it was all the same. every move to the step of our erratic dance blistered the heels. it wore us down in the same places. we shuffled and kicked pebbles in the cold. we snapped rubber bands on our wrists and drew on bony kneecaps through the rips in our distressed jeans.
we were sad, this never changed. and then i was sad - alone.
i don't know where you are, but i can't say i ever did. this is, i realize, expected. this is predictable. (less)
my friend withdraws in disdain at the gristle and rubber of an open heart,
smeared on the pages,
not writing so much as finger painting
whatever whims are in my mind.
(more) joke's on her, because everything i write is about me.
i don't have that writer's touch. i cannot become someone else for even
5-7-5 syllables, or 5 stanzas, or for the chorus of a song.
the closest i will get to another person is
glimpses into their eyes like shining a flashlight through cracked glass too sharp to touch,
or an image seen through a dozen sheets of cellophane,
or the throb of their arteries on college-ruled paper.
still, it's enough. i hold out bloodied words and wish
for an exchange of bodily fluids. (less)
we r all tourists, snapping photos
thru the slats of windows, getting foggy glimpses of another life. we build houses on shifting slabs of earth
& accumulate, & accumulate
like rats in a burrow, like shitty hotel guests
(more) that don't like to throw away.
we r like waves, pushed out of the ocean by sheer impulse,
didn't ask to be born(e from the saltwater),
& we'll be gone in an instant.
whether slipping back into the sea or
slapping the water's surface
or dashing ourselves up against the rocks--
why do we still giggle and feed each other oily instant meals,
both eating off of the other's fork,
when we hate one another so much?
when we kiss you taste like two-minute lasagna
(more) that was only zapped for one.
there is something raw in our intimacy,
our insides are still cold and unpliable
but yet, here we are, secretly screening netflix past curfew.
we both know we're borrowing minutes,
like a second student debt.
still we like to pretend we're happy,
to hide that we don't deserve this. (less)
sometimes there was money, bills neatly folded -
sometimes it was hair bands,
an escape route.
whatever i needed to see.
(more) you were a conjurer and the solution always swirled in the space around your fingertips; i was the assistant, i shuffled the cards, i pulled the rabbit out of the hat - i was the thick-n-through friend.
you pull prizes out of your back pocket
strings to keep up your game of smoke and mirrors,
but i've had enough of pulling out my hair
and keeping you safe when you play with fire.
if it's alright with you, i'll keep this friendship
strictly fair-weather. (less)
focus, focus - focusfocusfocus
until you can see the light through the blood in your capillaries
that lurk at the back of your eye.
focus until the tunnel vision turns black on either side
until words pour indiscriminate from your gaping jaw focus
focus until you don't know what(more) you were aiming for,
there's nothing to focus on,
til there is dust in your hair and your bones. (less)
so oddly specific -
what does a cowboy cry about? a broken saddle? a lost shootout? would there even be time for tears?
there's nothing in spurs & felt hats that makes them manly.
their tear ducts can bleed as surely as any other's would.
what does (more)a mother cry about? a soldier? a doctor?
- a dead daughter?
- a misfired gun?
- an xray glowing metastatic?
no you see we are LAUGHING at how sad we are!
there is black caked under our nails.
maybe we will cover it with incandescent polish
so you will see our half-moon cuticles.
you can see it and remember! it will be our inside joke.
kind of strange that
you got drunk and set everything right.
it wasn't supposed to go like this
and he tips down his sunglasses
with the arm that isn't hung over your shoulder
and slurs, "if you want to forget last night
(more) ever happened, no hard feelings."
ha. you thought this would be
the worst decision of your life
but you smile over the buzzing in your head,
whisper "that's okay,"
and bury your head in his shirt
to stop the world from spinning. (less)