We speed down the road behind your place not bothering to stop at the drive that is yours--hugging the curves and pressed tight to the door and the sidewalk;
"You are driving in the bike lane, dear."
I remember one night up on a mountain top overlooking the entire city in every direction, surrounded by transients and lurking voyeurs, legs spread to the stars and the cool winter gale flew up my skirt, nearly covering my face.
Back pinned to a rock in the sort of ecstasy that mimics the moments we imagine to be exactly perfect;
the moment exactly before we remember mundane articles that bring us back to the here and now--
the wet laundry left to mildew in the washing machine
or
having forgotten to pay the car insurance the other day when it was due. I watch you rise up like a sunset between my legs, licking your lips and fingers and whispering sweet words to me that perhaps I'll not ever hear again (the drugs are quicker than we remember and we say more than we intend, but, in fact, far less than we mean to--we will never say more).
The rough smoke exhale exitting my lips tastes better midorgasm.
"The planes make grids in tha air, you know. Have you ever watched them? They supervise the city. You have to do that with a city the size of Phoenix."
We are not safe.
In the car and driving around the neighborhood waiting for the house to clear up and our captors to disappear to their responsibilities so we can sleep late into the day seeking the clarity left somewhere in the closet in the back of the hall next to old board games and photo albums of prior life long loves--the reflections of pack animals lying on their backs forgetting the misdemeanors and heartbreaks of the past addressing remade mistakes askew in positions not recommended by the surgeon general in any form or condition thereof.
We will slip in, unannounced, finding ourselves almost immediately under-dressed fucking up the stairway and around the corner to the room that made me remember that I am, in fact, more alive than I once anticipated. Sleep seeped in until the startled day succumbed.
we run off
It started yesterday. meticulously scribed. A rendezvous-- Yet, the sun creeps over the horizon, then sinks. Blood runs thick and stale-- I roll over into and out of my breath. The earth dies in patterns under my body.
Pages, Ink-startled with life
incomplete.
Days past now stagnant
and laced into dusty deja vu.
there is a lull;
Little boy
lacquered in a heavy, grey film, I observe the world. blotting out detail pursing my lips on the tissue of dim; my visage enhanced. smoke surfaces where it does not belong my fingers seem foreign I examine them in wonderment breezeway lips to imagined or real destructions amazing grace pleas hummed at an unsteady tempo these chemicals write my blood chemistry chain reactions radiate through my nervous system store-bought lobotomy; I develop a tic. "The benefits outweigh the side effects," they say. The noises become quiet, I jest. my day is restricted to bar graphs and pie charts delicious reminders of differential indifference. I slink into my bed and lie still in waking hours watching patterns on the ceiling at night when the chemicals may run free; It is not safe. Take two sedatives and call me when you shake them, baby. My fears have been reduced to miligrams. There is a tear in the seams I venture out examine things slowly and watch colors bleed together to myself I proclaim, in question, Is this a glimpse of happiness or does it simply define madness?
]]>green melts into my fingers I soothe the earth in rich, slow strokes lying on my back I feel the ground exhale. My lashes flicker and earthly debris falls slow off my careless cheeks. I breathe. my figure lay akimbo to breezes grazing the curve of my body. I wake as raindrops blanket the grey two petals parting I wait. the skies darken my eyes dilate lips burn I exhale.
]]>long, drawn out summer days kiss the nape of my humid flesh breathe Is it enough to exist? Is it enough to write letters I will never send? I mourn the loss of you. Colors pass over the lids of my eyes cool themselves in flutters You light up the night, behind my lids, and my womb aches. It is a tiring masquerade running down the streets brightly aged by love's glow and I mourn you. My lips on the cool glass of store windows I drift off to a weary sleep exchanging correspondence in waves.
days only pills can cure
Strictly unmentionable content
It becomes increasingly hard to breathe