I’ve stopped all the demands.
all these parties were search themed, my nose grew red like bloodhounds,
and i just ended up trailing myself underneath the sheets.
I mean, I don’t mean to plead.
I’m mean, I understand if you want to avoid me.
“i’ll tell you about the stars because that’s the kind of poetry you want to read.”
I gather these ideas from the splash section of the mind, send them wet out your mouth,
our mountains and molehills both stampede.
i told you in the fields and the trees that day that my shoulders got broader,
limbs to our sides, nothing clandestine, just massive talks,
the kind we used to run and spill out against car seats,
polos and khakis, sweating god, fearing life on our lunch period.
now we cite our sources in arguments between games of kings;
we drink long after the waterfall dried, but we can’t find a meaning.
you told me your hips curved out the weekend we went to your cousin’s wedding,
the way the zipper on your back moved fast and slow and up and down,
the way we spun an open bar heart swell into something we could believe in.
i don’t know if they make rings for thoughts like this,
but i think i believed in you the minute i met you.
i left because you kept trying to find me a reason not to.
But before you go, before I speed read everything into montaging,
I just want you to know I still let everything about you put me into swooning,
your class notes I find beneath my sheets,
fire sirens and orchestras whenever you took pauses in your speech,
swelling the fear in me to take sabbatical leave.
the designs in my ceiling between the gaps of your teeth,
i swore higher things came closer when i realized you wanted me.
buried our house keys, drove ‘til the spring budded new places to be.
going far and fast on the idea of becoming imaginary, you dancing in your seat,
my anxieties for yours, crucify me against the back doors,
swan dive into my neck, throw my insides like i threw your hips.
the rise and fall of us,
when I’d follow the curves and pauses of your mouth, but never hear the things you’d speak,
“say something!”, but you just go and spill to the nearest bowl or sink.
the week i made six mix cds, the time you smoked menthols for two weeks,
i hate the way you’d bend and take and smoke through everything,
just to feel socially complete.
but I’m choking up on clean air, I need to hire you to make me feel like I could be alone,
to make bedrooms places i recognize outside other people’s staggered moans,
to make me stop missing future wives,
to leave our drinks and hold each other down until the buzz arrives,
‘til we split and rust up,
‘til we find shinier things that better suit us,
‘til we can’t make that swoon feel new,
no matter how many positions we try to.
released June 10, 2014
music by j. lapierre and t. bowlz.
all rights reserved