February 25, 2004
I Miss You
I'm falling into this sort of hole. It's dark and round but I can see right through it, straight to the bottom, and I know that it's not darkness there but ink, black ink. A pot of it, eager. If only I had a quill.
I sat on the couch in the lounge with the mismatched cushion. There's an arm on it, but it's in the middle. I wish I fit, too. I'm green and gingham and stained, too.
I wish I could be a night owl. I think of the best poems in bed, my eyelids heavy as lead, as those big rubber mud-flats on semi-trucks. I have naked ladies on me, and I'm writing poems about them, about me, that naked lady, rummaging on your bedroom floor for my green and gingham and stained panties. You smelled ripe so I plucked you like the vegetable you are. Seedless. I've got those. I'm the fruit.
Fuck me, weren't we listening to music as we fucked? Rhythm, percussion, strings sounding like plastic streamers in the wind, like children whistling through stems of grass? Nails hammering, hammered, into my head you poured like milk into a bowl, water into a vase.
I tucked a flower into your button hole and you patted the flower that girdled my hips.
astera at 12:23 a.m.