poem

I bathe in the smoke of words, not saccharine but honeysuckle sweet. I press my lips to the base of that flower and inhale every emotion that floats off his lips. I could die in these crowded dim lit bars staring dumbly into hazel eyes.

Sometimes they’re the same dark dirty green as his coat with flecks of red and brass like his bars and stripes. His stories pungent with the metallic taste of blood, a mouth full of pennies with the crack of fire right behind your ear.

Crass words licked with trauma of loss. He grips my body as if I’m already leaving him, pushes himself back into me.

&I’m afraid to stay.

&I’m afraid to let him go.

 

27 December 2012

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