november slumber
sometimes a spouse is just a spouse. just a room in some other house. one we never think about. one we have no worry for.
oh, i marvel at the way you lift your legs from out those trouser things. when you enter in, from a finished swim. and i left your dinner warming beside the fridge.
a calamity it seems to me. the way we could've used to be. if it weren't for every single thing that pushed the water from our stream.
i was young then, i was finger paint. could do nothing but anticipate. and waited for your hand to take a piece of me and spread it thin
on paper or up on the walls. against the prints that years made tall. i was antsy yet so hard to move. if you picked me up, i'd still leave a groove
in the dark shag under a winter tree, decked against a window. in a corner. just a real live shelf for us to hang our life on. our dreams on. our things on.
when i'm dressed, i do come meet you. downstairs before the living room. you sit straight, shoulder width apart, your legs vibrate a cacophony.
in this real life that is mine i am not at all ready for this radical chill. upon going to sleep each night, i fondle my pillows that have turned into ice cubes, balanced against a wall that hugs a wilderness i'm not interested in. or i would be were it tropical or sparkling in the moonlight or prosperous with people i can invite over. the more the bodies the warmer the seat.
on a lighter note: this bar just played yazoo which makes me happy to be out of the house but saddened that nobody here ever dances.
oh, i marvel at the way you lift your legs from out those trouser things. when you enter in, from a finished swim. and i left your dinner warming beside the fridge.
a calamity it seems to me. the way we could've used to be. if it weren't for every single thing that pushed the water from our stream.
i was young then, i was finger paint. could do nothing but anticipate. and waited for your hand to take a piece of me and spread it thin
on paper or up on the walls. against the prints that years made tall. i was antsy yet so hard to move. if you picked me up, i'd still leave a groove
in the dark shag under a winter tree, decked against a window. in a corner. just a real live shelf for us to hang our life on. our dreams on. our things on.
when i'm dressed, i do come meet you. downstairs before the living room. you sit straight, shoulder width apart, your legs vibrate a cacophony.
in this real life that is mine i am not at all ready for this radical chill. upon going to sleep each night, i fondle my pillows that have turned into ice cubes, balanced against a wall that hugs a wilderness i'm not interested in. or i would be were it tropical or sparkling in the moonlight or prosperous with people i can invite over. the more the bodies the warmer the seat.
on a lighter note: this bar just played yazoo which makes me happy to be out of the house but saddened that nobody here ever dances.