December 2008
Worrying Me: A List.
Whenever I’m away from things for awhile, I get worried that while I’m gone everyone will forget, and when I come back, everyone will have neatly removed me from their lives, and then I’ll be this extra piece to their puzzle.
Secretly, I am not as interesting as others think I am, and someday this will be discovered, and I’ll have nothing left but my book collection and a...
NYC sunk.
Your teeth are sinking like ships caught on the iceburg of my shoulder blades. In New York City, the law states that you cannot turn right on a red. In the bedroom, my mouth can’t move fast enough to catch up with my blood, both right and red. On the ocean of your back, I sink, my hull parted, my innermost workings spilling outward, my bones lay resting on your floor. Sunk and gradually...
what else.
In terms of conventions, the way my ankles continuously find themselves crossed over
yours, leaves some broken, some shattered. It isn’t the taste of our tongues or the skin to skin of the hours after eleven, but instead
the casual way my tongue keeps finding the same words in the dark: just with you. But
last year’s rain didn’t fall solely over me, the clouds made their way...
parallax: two.
The proof is hidden in the walls and when our fingers tire of peeling the ancient paper back, we rest: sinking into cotton folds, our eyes closed until afternoon sun.
The proof is hidden under the floor and when the hammer grows weary of prying at the heavy boards, it crashes: falling against soft of our skin, quiet against the weight of words.