GraduationWe stood outside on the hot asphalt,The sun was suspended low on fishing line;Made from papier-mâché and lit from the inside.Cardboard cutouts of hills lined the sky,With trees painted on in faded green acrylics.It was early morning and our eyes were clouded;Vision impaired by weather and emotions.Your polyester shirt had one button undone,Every feeling you ever hid from meSpilled out from it onto the street.It was a silver mess of love and lies,Like your cap and gown abandoned in the grass.Our lips were five inches apart;Two states and one year away.I could have leaned in and kissed your noseBut you sighed heavi
Post-it Note ExplanationI had a dreamWhere the stage was star-litAnd the carpet was red.The theater was almost empty,There were only three of us.You and I both sat in the middle sectionLike we had been lovers for years.It was by coincidence we were both there.You had an artist sketchpad in your lap,And a 4H pencil in your right hand.You would glance at me occasionally,Olivine-brown eyes hidden behind glasses,And scribble something down on the paper.You stopped only once to take a sipFrom your brushed chrome travelers mug ofExpensive, big-shot coffee.You were back from College.I sat with one seat between us,My hopes as frayed as th
Relative Kinetic MotionI felt him coming before he threw the pebbles at my window.There was some bizarre magnetic pull, some kinetic force between us. The sort of neo-physical gibberish we were supposed to learn back in High School Physics class. Instead we passed back and forth an old scrap of paper, laughing quietly and playing a word game, doodling on the corners of the paper in desperation.The hair on my arms pricked slightly, the cool ocean breeze ruffling the curtains. I loved summer. Throwing the white sheets off the bed into a heap on the wooden floor, I got up, my legs shaky from a nights worth of effortless sleep. The dark mahogany grimaced at me with
Callused HandsI.Silvery blue light from the TVIlluminates their weathered faces;Bed sheets as the stormy ground.With paisley covers tucked up to jowls,The man in the brown jacketReports the end of the world.They pass back and forth idle thoughts: "How was work today dear?" and"I think the lawn needs to be mowed."II.Headphones jammed into her ears,Hypnotic vintage acousticsBleed out unwanted thoughts.She's terribly cliché in a modern sense.Sitting cross-legged in her closet becauseThe bed holds home to his memories.She knows the end is near.III.It's a quarter to midnight.Can you call this a home? He lies perfectly s
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