5.11.2010

lights and shapes and how you came to wrap your hand around my heart

We're so far away from home
We're poison and toxic
and wouldn't have it any other way.
We're in my car and driving this way
or that on War Memorial and I'm
showing you the city. And you're
asking questions all kinds of questions.
You have a healthy interest in all
the boring buildings that we pass.
Every stoplight a story. Every breath
is my breath.
Nearing the Illinois River we take
a quick exit and head downtown.
You're all words and I'm all love.
Cheeks will grow red and your wet
tongue moving in your mouth and I
can barely contain myself.
You're the perfect day.
Today when I woke up and drove
as quickly as I could to the airport
I counted clouds. And saw us in every
one.

You'll go on how all the corny
outpourings of a heart doesn't fit
me well. And I'll agree over and over
over cigarettes. This time.
This time. I'll beg. And the words
will come out on the page. But the
words refuse to float. Refuse to float.
We refuse to float.
It's lights and shapes outside.
Soft angles and heavy breath inside.
Inside my car where I pretend my hand
slips off the gearshift and brush
legs I've never seen.
A stroke of the brush.

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