Ironing

the mouse that roared's picture

I said goodbye in a gaze thirty-seven degrees away from your eyes on my sockets;
In short words in short sentences:
“We’ll chill, it’ll be cool.”
(my hands dove in my pockets as if it were your cheekbones they were holding)
words full of curdled nectar, fermentation of old pumping blood.

You ironed on a smile that
Saw in my lips those vines you wound about my heart.
You still sparkled like our unfilled wine glasses,
still drew a tightrope between us,
and I grab one end away, wrap my fist three times, and flower-press your face on a kite.

Footfalls digging sockets into pockmarked sand, pockets,
tightrope string slicing red fortunes on my palm,
still running to catch up to your face in the clouds,
no matter how many sandy-grain pyramids behind.

Comments

whateversexual_llama's picture

mm, this was neat. I love it

mm, this was neat. I love it when free verse is actually free, just holding its own flow but not being a ramble. I read it a couple times before I got most of it, though. I just like the sound of the words. =)

Be yourself. 'Cause if you're busy being somebody else, who's gonna be you?