I watched you do a spring-step skip across a Newcastle postcard
holding your breath and taking pictures at magic hour.
Your laugh was natural, like your shivers when the humming tide
purges all of our tracks and sweeps them back to existentialism.
You are wrought with grace and for
every moment that you are a Polaroid
there will be me in a reflection somewhere,
writing words because of you
making even the most ritualistic and meaningless
into something inspired;
how I’ll trace your arm every morning when I’m still dreaming
of another coast in another life.
But still I would choose this moment because
right now, you’re just skipping across the street at magic hour.
Right now, it’s just you and me and our lobster-boat town
and today has left me content because of moments spent with you.
Hey check out my entry for the Weekly Writing Challenge
He was deep into his tab: the bilingual over-tipper who liked to tip over the bar chairs. “Uno mas, hey, wass your name brudda?” Sunday night, it was atypical: there’s always one who goes too far or drinks too much and consequentially spends too much. “Two Coronas,” then “sure”, I said. That was last night’s anti-hero; he was drunk but I empathized because I understood the sadness.
It always comes in stages and he was just about in the final stage: the tears, the shots, and finally the apologies. Well, he was two for three. We’ve all been there but I had a feeling he had been stewing too long. You can always tell when a man has had his fill.
He starts to hug everyone right about the same time he becomes afraid that he’s about to lose everyone; I don’t think he’s there, though. I like to picture him callous and immune from the girls and the vampiric fucking things that they do.
You were crying on Tuesday
and I don’t feel bad for you today.
You walked away that winter day
when I shoveled out your mother and her cars.
I knew then, that this was the best:
you swearing against a deity and its mess.
What’s God’s problem?
My arms and my legs ache.
Does a deity have my number
or is he just getting lazy enough to
let me fall in love every day that I’m not too busy to notice.
Stumbling through those friends that are always talking about living,
or rather surviving the weekend purge and the Republican riots
dancing the candid dance that leaves too soon and
just before you get the chance to say what you think and,
what you feel regarding how women can ruin good days and fix the bad ones;
how the girls make the days and the mornings made of elementary attitude that made me ask about your coffee preferences and your mistakes.
Stumbling, I heard you singing
that inevitable eulogy .
But, if it was you, you would have known and
never would have forgotten me like the moonshine and those men who keep you ticking.
Brunette hair let down in a blonde age,
A kiss from an acquaintance,
Watch it blossom into tomorrow morning
I’d like to hold your hand on a Friday while we’re still hungover.
No work, or computer age components,
Just a lazy haze and a morning spent in a romantic daze with no itinerary or expectations,
You inhaled my dream which turned into a nightmare, where did the fun go aside from the dusty pearls of the sweetest high, you consumed it all I thought, and then we all agreed that we are silly and that it not was not all gone.
When I wake up in this hotel that is dirtier than your home, I am waking up for that A train to work that I do not actually want to board, just to make all of those calls and be written up. I just go home with the loom of my migraine of a day and put the underwear you left me with and started to play, the next day is ahead. In briefs.