Sunday 7/23/2006 11:42:00 PM

He fiddled with the pillow. The microscopes returning to his stare. And I wondered what dance my atoms were doing. Cha-cha or merengue. No matter. He wouldn't know the difference. And neither would I. They all sound like laughter in the middle of sex.

Eyelashes on every finger. As they blink against the hiccup in their chest.

We were watching tv in the dark. Trying hard not see each other. I grabbed the moon from its orbit between our bodies and threw it toward the ceiling. It just didn't belong in that bed.

With a fingernail he wrote his thoughts on my back. I guess they're still there.

When he was done I rolled over and flicked the switch in his palm to the off position. And it was finally dark enough so that we didn't have to see each other.


| Alcoholic Poet Home |
Copyright 2005-2018. All Rights Reserved.