Sunday, October 23, 2011

We Should Just Be Friends

Broken skin, bruised skin,
bad skin, smeared eye make up,
I love it for what it represents.

Staring past imperfection for once
and it burns my stomach like hunger.

scorches like:
An evening that never ends,
A morning that never begins.

The secrets are shared, my mouth,
an indispensable cask, swilling
and spilling that has been held dear
for so long in the shadows like sailors
in seaport opium dens of old. Clandestine
yet heartfelt, unrequited
and not totally understood.

Snuggled, cold sweats and anti-climax
with the watchful eye of El Oso ever present,
ever near, ever disruptive but not out of “malicious intent.” Threats of abandonment and other people’s mistakes, my own sense of responsibility and self-preservation at the forefront like a melancholy wall
of discretion.

We’re discrete and I’m relieved, heart-broken,
unsure, un-showered, alone, cold, opaque.

My heart’s a blank check, fill it in and cash it.

Pyrite pride under the circumstance,
I’d only pull your leg if you asked me too.

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