thursday, espresso 22
wrist
i am anything but sloppy in my disillusionment.
i don't touch my chai
but i drink every ounce of you
(from all the way across the room--
miles of tile
oceans of checkered white & blue.)
a city full of otherwise-yous.
i memorize your decorated stillness
so when i look away,
i still see your likeness.
weaving in & out of your fingers;
now i'm stuck between your teeth,
now i'm the buttons on your shirt.
[maybe i'm too much me
to know that much of you.]
i trace stars & give you an imaginary name
an imaginary voice
an imaginary way you're watching me & doing the same.
pressed up against the page
recording only the parts i want to take away with me
(but i'm in no hurry.)
~no place like home.~
fairy tales.
next tale.
