Walking the House with a Candle...
I yelled at a bunch of waitresses today.
I felt bad afterward.
Thirty days hath September,
April, June, and whatever.
I just think that it's the 29th
And that means
Nine more days until I see you.
I wonder what it will be like.
I know exactly how it will go at the train station.
Me, walking with my luggage,
You unencumbered and electric.
You will move throughout Penn Station
In one of your little skirts
And dance across the floors
Normally reserved
For the bereft and homeless.
I imagine your eye make-up,
Your breath,
Your posture.
I feel as though if I were to die tomorrow
(And by writing this poem and cursing myself,
I certainly may)
I would be content with this pristine image
That I keep of you.
I have never entered your apartment,
Yet I know it already.
I will tiptoe on your carpet
And knock on your hard wood floors.
And when,
If
We shower together,
I will know the tiny, unreachable
Parts of the small of your back
To get with your loofah.
At night and deep in sleep
I can taste your sweat.
I remember it from before.
Those long, sleepless, aggressive nights
Where your perspiration was in my eyes.
I remember it.
And with no violence to suggest at all
Will I get you to drip that way again.
With every moment that I stand
I imagine your hand
And your drip
And your taste and your hips
And the flips in your hair
That you wear when you're scared
And you're weak and you need to be held.
You have some metal. It needs a good weld.
And I am masked and approaching,
My dear perfect nothing.
And I will put to the side
Every little bit of myself
To touch you
Hold you
Be with you
Again.
I walked about the house
Tonight with a candle.
And I burn for you.
Nine days.
-Brian
I felt bad afterward.
Thirty days hath September,
April, June, and whatever.
I just think that it's the 29th
And that means
Nine more days until I see you.
I wonder what it will be like.
I know exactly how it will go at the train station.
Me, walking with my luggage,
You unencumbered and electric.
You will move throughout Penn Station
In one of your little skirts
And dance across the floors
Normally reserved
For the bereft and homeless.
I imagine your eye make-up,
Your breath,
Your posture.
I feel as though if I were to die tomorrow
(And by writing this poem and cursing myself,
I certainly may)
I would be content with this pristine image
That I keep of you.
I have never entered your apartment,
Yet I know it already.
I will tiptoe on your carpet
And knock on your hard wood floors.
And when,
If
We shower together,
I will know the tiny, unreachable
Parts of the small of your back
To get with your loofah.
At night and deep in sleep
I can taste your sweat.
I remember it from before.
Those long, sleepless, aggressive nights
Where your perspiration was in my eyes.
I remember it.
And with no violence to suggest at all
Will I get you to drip that way again.
With every moment that I stand
I imagine your hand
And your drip
And your taste and your hips
And the flips in your hair
That you wear when you're scared
And you're weak and you need to be held.
You have some metal. It needs a good weld.
And I am masked and approaching,
My dear perfect nothing.
And I will put to the side
Every little bit of myself
To touch you
Hold you
Be with you
Again.
I walked about the house
Tonight with a candle.
And I burn for you.
Nine days.
-Brian