confession highways

poetic_star's picture

It's too late to call you, now, friend,
and you're probably just pulling off
the road and checking into
some motel with a vintage
sign glowing neon in east Texas.
The truth is, boy, that I wouldn't
know what to say if I could get
a hold of you on the phone
in my current state because
the last time I saw you,
it was raining in bucketfuls
of liquid pearls and your
mother was waving
goodbye on the porch,
as though you were
going off to war and
it'd be the last time
she would see your
hazelnut eyes shining
and that dopey grin.

Boy, I needed to say a lot of things;
half-truths and metaphors
that I'd swallowed earlier
over a cold breakfast of
orange juice and wheat thins
but it all got stuck there in
my desert throat like a pebble
at the bottom of a blue-pink jar.
And you smiled like you already knew,
hugged me fiercely before climbing
in your truck and driving off under
a sheen of plastic grey heaven.

Tonight I picture you lying
on a bed with a striped coverlet,
reading Heart of Darkness and
ignoring the bible in the drawer
of the pine desk.
Los Lobos might
be playing on the radio and
my face probably
never crosses your mind
like a shooting star across
a newspaper firmament.

Boy, why is it so hard sometimes?
I miss you so much, I can't stand
this stereotypical wind
tearing at my clothes
and ruffling my hair
in a way that makes me
wish you were here.
Remember how we used to agree
on music all the time
but fight over important things
like whether or not
it's alright for boys
to whisper "I love you" when
there's nobody around to judge?
I can't say I understand this
but why am I always
the one running off?

It's too late now.
These weekend highways don't care
that I lost you,
even when I wasn't aware of my
own heart beating acid
and Indian Paintbrush,
longing for someone
uncensored and nice;
handsome and cool-tempered.
No, boy, these highways don't
have a clue that they're putting
unmarked distance between us
in the form of yellow lines
and blurry scenery.

But it's too late to
chew on these regrets
and you're the only
thing I'm afraid of;
light and tall,
made of prairie flesh
with a bruised cherry
mouth that
never wakes me from
my foreign dreams,
the color of fire and salt,
tasting of
apple pie and freedom.

If I stood my ground
for once like you did
in a crowd of bullies
in that alley with bloody
bricks scraping against your spine,
maybe, boy, you'd think this was
worth staying long enough to enjoy
and I wouldn't be alone now,
smoking a cigarette in this
methane downpour.

And you always said when
we were alone in the safe
shadows of your parents' living room,
"Remember that storm,
the one that took both our childhoods
and meshed them together,
made us more than just strangers?"
And I'm forced to nod and
pretend I don't feel your
cheek pressing against my neck.
Boy, you're so bold.
Why aren't you more careful?
Haven't you learned your lesson?

"You saved me twice," you murmur,
gazing at me from a sleeping bag
with soft eyes that make me
wish I didn't know you.
A Mayan tear sits on your lash line.
I tell you not to cry because
it's scary, friend, and
because I can't think
when you're so beautiful.

"Kiss me."
"No," I insist.
You say you can't
kill these feelings
with a shotgun
or even persistence,
that it's useless
and you just want
to kiss boys,
hold someone's hand
when you shouldn't
come close to hoping
for an accepting tomorrow,
painted purple and gold
outside your window.

But it's too late to
hide these cravings
like CD cases in
the glove compartment
or ginger snaps
in a kitchen cupboard.
It's hard to tell
if I'm on your mind
from miles away.
But I want to kiss your lips
as they kiss me with despair
and have your hands;
warm and pushing my body
against a cheap wall,
making me feel like
I have no choice but
to let you crack me open
like a battered old music box.

I want you to know that
I'm not the same
stuck-up bastard
I was when I said no
to the gentle train of
your fingers along
my toxic collarbone.
Boy, I'm sorry for that, especially.
And I'm sorry I took too long to
show up in ratty jeans
and a ripped t-shirt,
asking for my key back and
for the taste of august
daylight on your tongue.


elph's picture


A love that was never meant to be? Can't really tell...

But the metaphors for suppressed emotions sound genuine... and quite overpowering!

poetic_star's picture


thanks, babe.

Bosemaster42's picture

Heartbreakingly beautiful,

Indeed. Your crafty use of Metaphors created a mental picture for me as I read this, which frankly, makes this poem special and very good! I can feel the raw emotions.

poetic_star's picture


I'm always grateful for your support :)