sending you love and light.
and believe me,
your day deserves these wishes,
my optimism-infused sentiments.
and because my goodnight is your good morning.
and because we’ve shared,
thick eyed sleep and tangled sheets.
and I’m listening to your voice sing
not to me in particular, I know.
but allowing my heart to saturate
between our time zones, blend.
take a dive and...
allowing your words, honest
and music, clear
to make my goodnight.
I’ll be your sun
on those mornings
when clouds shadow slate skies
over struggle-stirred coffee
bits of half-eaten toast are our
past lives and relationships
strewn over table
saliva strings our words. Worlds.
Thick sex to flowing feedback and
itching to go to God.
Yeah, I’m ok with that.
I fold excuses like laundry.
It hangs on the curtain rod rusted
over my too-small New York tub.
Watch the inky water
from newly-dyed, new lace thongs
and a tiny puddle perfect form.
My clean underthings are
each an alibi.
They’re unassuming, sure,
to that untrained view you bring.
But like a calling card they’re
my territory marker…
behind my blinking eye, sandstorms brew.
My steering emotion attempts a calming ritual
Om vende gurunam – fuck.
I’m the victim of these up’s and down’s.
A gong, I hear jealousy deafen against my eardrums.
should be quelled, silenced!
Nod your head girl, insert your earplugs,
and play this game
You signed up for.
Remember? The dotted line
The no-commitment ceremony where those
puppet strings were dis-attached?
Pretend you’re immune.
Wipe clean your brain of the
thoughts of his holding
you between sheets
curl into each other and feel your lace calling card
brush his skin.
And you signed on.