Celeste

[wannaholdhands]

There is a longing in my chest.
I call her Celeste.

She wears home-made beaded rave bracelets
clothing that is too tight, too short,
A gold-plated necklace that clumsily spills her name across her milky-way chest
And a tattoo that spells out her now ex-boyfriends name across her ankle.
She does not act her age. She smokes waaaay too much pot.

I spent years 
throwing the bones of any lover I could find at her door 
in hopes that she would move out. She
Turned up the music, packed another bowl.
          I 
broke all of her vinyl, sold her pipe in a garage sale. 
She took up tap dancing and insisted on practicing anytime I tried to write
Needless to say, Celeste and I are not friends.

We had to learn to get along-
She used to bemoan my melancholy.
I found her metaphors trite. Find-
I find here metaphors trite. But

I have grown accustomed to the gap in her teeth.
Took a lesson from how she wears "youth" like a choice
We have come to appreciate each other.

It started over tea one Monday 
Which for me is really more like Sunday.
Which for Celeste is pretty much every day.
She told me all she wanted was access to open space whenever she felt like it.
I told her I wanted to feel safe.
She said she could understand, but preferred he thrill of its absence.

She would never admit it to my face, but I'm pretty sure she has started reading my poetry when I'm asleep.