the moon boy and to him my mind is only the tide. emptying myself when he calls on a wednesday night, running home only when he says it's time to go, picking the gravity off my skin. and we dance, like the traffic in this college town. 1:52 PM 2 Comments
now that you're here. now that you're here, I'd like to thank you for brown eyes, because there is no such thing as a warm atlantic. I hear you when you tell me that not even the stars are immortal, but I'm not asking for all your sunday afternoons, or monday mornings or friday nights. I don't need another weekday lover. but now that you're here, you with your godless days and your labyrinth mind and your stories of the south I need heavy eyes and the air that makes your lungs sting. I need kind eyes running across my shoulder blades as you take your seat, three chairs south of mine. I need winter eyes asking me to come in. to stay a while. 3:00 PM 5 Comments
east coast girls she likes people who use heavy words, but never sterile ones. the kind of lips that taste like worn pages, and eyes like the Atlantic. she likes blood moons and busy hands and the boys who never bothered to ask her major. she likes the breaths that sit heavy on his skin, and the kind of Paris that lives between the walls of high school classrooms. and I'm sorry darling, but she never much liked the Pacific. 5:20 PM 3 Comments
vienna tell me I walk too fast tell me that stars are for science tell me I'm no green-eyed child with piano keys under my nail beds and poems under every heavy breath. tell me teenaged girls don't major in political science tell me I'm not allowed to write my own dialogue in their margins and tell me that I don't know because two weeks in south america won't make up for two years. tell me "you are what you eat" while you, you struggle to choke down your own advice tell me to take my time, though you know as well as I do that when you're 19 vienna waits for no one. tell me I'm an inconvenience. 3:34 PM 3 Comments
high school poetry it was only high school poetry. it was only you with your august eyes and us with our tuesday love. we had gold in our eyes and lead on our papers but we were far too brave to write in pencil. we had gold on our palms and lead on our fingers but we washed our hands every sunday. we had black on our jeans and white on our faces because we were far too poetic to admit it. admit it. it was only high school poetry. 3:45 PM 5 Comments
Flight 175 My dad was stranded in China and then Australia for a few days. No flights coming into the US. My mom was ironing and crying and the television was far too loud. He missed my 5th birthday, and I refused to open presents until he was home. At least he came home. 2:52 PM 2 Comments
