simple tips to gain my friendship
- have a dog
- show me pictures of your dog
- invite me over to pet your dog
- be a dog
E.E. Cummings (via feellng)
tiny little turn ons:
- people leaning against walls with one shoulder while they talk
- catching somebody turning away smiling at a joke you made
- people who linger on a hug for just a second after you let go
- somebody glancing at your lips while you’re talking
I. I write in fragments because this body can only recite itself backwards. I balance your name on the head of my tongue only to watch it fall onto the concrete & into conversation. I remember eyes watching me do this, but not the color of them. I remember your eyes—lashes tipped with misery, two dark half-moons resting underneath them—how I even loved sadness when sadness had your name. Your name a gospel I used to sing back when you loved me, your name that now only crashes, breaks apart.
II. The aftertaste of love is vodka—pennies—steel. In the aftermath, in here—the heart, blood was beautiful until it wasn’t, until the body that kept it refused to die. The only marks of us fading softly into my skin as my voice thinks to dance on nails for forgiveness, but the chords snap—boomeranging wildly your name.
III. If you can’t remember it, the joy of love was never soft. I remember everything & everything hurt good or hurt bad, bruised or bloodied or pleasured or smiled with teeth. In your dreams, you were killing men without homes. In mine—& still in mine—we sit across from each other & watch as the room splinters. The tears weren’t always a punishment—remember that—& my words, my small hands trembling, remember emeralds in the sun, remember what courage was when it hid along your ribs, remember laughter & then me— remember the mirrored body of your body—the water from the same well—you almost killing you when you were trying to kill me—know how my body still stands—how both our bodies stand.
IV. This story—our September—now his. How to tell someone how you made me—how the heat turned my body into glass—how one explains the lineage of love to a lover. He calls you the past, but you still live here. Sure, I burn your memory at the stake—but when they look away, I cut you down, watch as your soul limps to the treeline. This is how I tell them how I loved you. This is where my face is pushed against a pillow. When he tells me not to move, I freeze & pray my body doesn’t shatter."