Sunday, September 23, 2007

It's tired for a sunday nite

or I am.

The spare language we use or save. Here's a description of every thought we've ever had together: blank blank blank.

Diced and snake-eyed. I forget who I'm talking about, ok?

I pay my loans in installments. I wash my dishes with a rough sided sponge. I wish my friends were a constellation I could crawl up next to.

My body was four-sided once and you rolled up to it with your limp and heather. You knocked my ribs around looking for a way in, looking for answers.

Wait, the phone's ringing. Wait, the tapwater's dusty. Wait, there's a stranger handling the door.

My sign is a cramp-handed ego. You're laughing like the grapes have gone drunk. We'll sit in the rain wet shadows with our mouths shut, peeling away the tart skin from the fruits we stole.

Some garden, this. Wait, what are those starbursts on your chest...


yonderincarp said...

Call. Or answer.

Anonymous said...

it is what is could be...