No pillow comes without residue.
At our age, blessings come in small forms…
hands cradled together,
words buried in sweet breath,
unconditional nights,
uncontrolled…..
Tell me about your exploration, about
fingertips trickling down
courage….
spines do not break easily, do they?
I met you today,
I see your influence and result,
you probably know
that I see through blue eyes,
saturated by the way your fingertips move.
I’m going to be in love tonight
under this hidden moon
in this welcome season
just tonight
as this house creaks like
seventy year old bones,
as murders grow in awful hands,
as no one sets foot on
this same carpet.
I’m going to kiss warm lips tonight
of a living man
who breathes cold opinion
and holds me in his eyes,
who clears distance from hollow
rooms,
who says nothing,
who lays unknowingly, tonight, beside me
with no one around to overhear us.
I am going to make love tonight
to a suspect of betrayal,
to my heart’s gravity,
to a memory that has been
soaking in the fall.
Listen. It is perfectly safe.
Look around.
No one is near. It has been years
since I fell asleep with
my skin underneath him, falling,
falling in to some
confession, and tonight
I will not hear a sliver of his voice
and he will not know
that tonight’s moon will
cover up his absence,
for me.
Who are you in your
baggy black jeans, watching
piss ants form long tedious lines
from ground to
leaves?
Who are you with your
tight pin stripes, walking the
easy walk through spit fire
rain mixed
streets?
Who are you, resting raw on old
sheets?
Who are you with your bold thumbs,
and your forward reflex,
and your creamy repose?
Who are you to those who know your
thoughtful silence, or your blunt anger,
or your cold shoulder?
Who are you to the ant, the ground, and the leaves?
And, then, who are you to me?
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