(All writing published here is owned by me unless cited otherwise.)
Words you fell off of like feathers and dew
And the ice-cold guilt waiting for you always in a crowded corner.
Sucked me like a grape and you didn’t want my skin,
I grow my nails long and forget that you are still the iceberg above me,
Posing like a trick sea-lion who has never seen his own reflection
But warbles through the water like a beautiful king.
Words like rarely, exactly, and in part quantify your life,
Give it lips and eyes and heart,
Teeth and sweat glands and the slightest hint of a blonde moustache when the water hits you right.
You’ve cried yourself fleshless to the pulp of an over-ripe apricot
Sagging through the twisted wires of the mesh fruit bowl.
You remembered the willful way I wore my clothes,
But forgot how uglily I fumbled when I made a dash for the door.