Saturday 11/18/2006 12:24:00 AM

He put the carpet under the bed. Forty dollars to hide the floor that was already hidden. His footsteps always made him sound larger than he was. He was one goosebump all alone amongst a great length of skin. The only one brave enough to admit how cold it was.

His pace implied an urgency that wasn't there. I'd run around him in my head. In the tortured marathons of a friend who wanted love. Chasing words that can't be caught. Killing moments that are never really dead.

We were only names to each other. For as much dirt as that could displace. For as little face as we could afford to see when our eyes opened too soon after the drowning. The little chambers in our lives where we keep the chapters we're not ready to read spreading their legs.

Anticipating.

Penetration.

0 comments:


| Alcoholic Poet Home |
Copyright 2005-2016. All Rights Reserved.