TheCourtRose

Her skin is the sand             tan and free running She curls her body around purple mountains, holding them to her breasts Her breath, the icy air moving between leaves Her hair, muddy brown blue             beckoning in its movement Gilded liquid fingers, tickling sucking toes There is dawn in her hair             and sunset in her eyes Orange, pink, yellow twilight ribbons, flecks of liquid turquoise Bits of starlight             glazing the sand             in the crooks of her elbows,             behind her knees Piercing, bedazzled loops and stones She lies, a contented desert cat Her paws, the rocks Her nails, the cactus Her ...

If love was a place, you and I took a pretty fantastic trip. Neither one remembered a passport, or bothered to check tickets for a return flight. But it ended, as many good things do, and now we're back. One slightly distracted, rumbling call and I remember naps and drinks and sun-drenched skin, at our place, the place where we loved each other. Slowly sat down between my bedroom door and the couch, using my hardwood floor as an anchor against a swooping tide of longing. A knowing look from my roommate that said, Uh oh, girl and I had to admit, I was a little taken aback. I didn't count on your blue eyes or slender fingers, or missing your lips, missing your dick, missing those hip bones beneath my teeth. I forgot the way you so casually understand me and accept all the mismatched, neurotic, ambitious parts. Yet knowing this does not make me sad. Sitting on my floor, longing for you again, looking back at the months together, stories sewn between us, I can smil...

I am a hanging scarecrow next to the yellow brick road. All good intentions and thunderstruck, twiddling thumbs. I want so desperately to keep that pen in your hand, force fairy tales from your tongues, but coercion does not produce inspiration. You will forget this once the term is done, but my nightmares will linger on. Terror that I did not teach enough. Fear you will reach again for a gun instead of a book by Keats or Baum or Whitman. A remote will replace your paper, advertisements instead of thoughts. That you will turn off what I have so wildly been trying to turn on. I am a tin man dancing, clunking, rigid in front of you. Putting golden bricks beneath your boots, asking you to pick them up and lay down a different path. We've already seen where the red brick goes. I know where my heart is on this silver suited sleeve. (I would twirl and pirouette like a fool to keep your focus.) Make you listen; make you believe. Be an oil for these rusty, hopeful hing...