You and your friends in boxes in my head. Roses and caramel. I can taste them when in the smoke. You chill me to the bone. And you won’t give me your sweater. And I write like this when I am cold so that I can be a little warmer.
I love you. Especially today.
Heading for the city, in the haze of November. The smell of strawberries from my headphones makes me cry. You taste like salt and I am a slug.
The boxes are empty and it is too much effort to put things in them. I don’t want to put you down. You could use someone like me. I think pink is my favorite color. I will paint my bat barn pink. The boxes are too tight and I am choking on my smoke. Can you give me a box? Why don’t I deserve a box.
When you come over, when you are 50. We will sit on my porch and drink ice-tea the way it was made in 2007. The ravens will come back to the windows in our dreaming tree and perch in silence. The flowers will be dead of course so we will stare at the dirt and the empty boxes lying in my yard. And insects will taste like raisins.
I am ready to believe in anything. But magic takes so much effort.
My life tastes like smoke. You taste like water.
love this !
ReplyDeletethe repetition of images really works (like smoke) and you're using so many of the senses in your descriptions. very whimsical.
favorite lines:
"The smell of strawberries from my headphones makes me cry."
"And insects will taste like raisins."