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Play Practice: November 15, 2002 We�re watching Cirque Du Soleil, well, you are, I�m not I�m watching you, because you�re smiling and this is one of the moments of my life that I keep behind my eyes so that I can look at you, and your smile, long after I�ve ruined myself for you.
It Means "Butterflies" I could write forever about the soul that�s in your eyes if I could just get passed the pain of you for one second. I could say they�re murky green, so deep and bottomless I could get lost inside them, but thinking about your eyes makes my stomach buckle. I don�t think you even know about my eyes, that they change color depending on the weather, or that every time I�m with you they say �I love you� no, the last person who noticed my eyes, was Andorran, and 14, (like me) when he leaned over and said with his thick accent that I had beautiful eyes even though I misunderstood him at the time, and thought he was speaking of mariposas.
Revolve sitting in the backseat while you two sit up front, listening to some disaffected reggae singer scream for revolution and nodding along like you�re ever going to take action. god, how many more nights in your car? how many more times are we going to scheme like we�ll make a difference and act like we�ll have an effect, like we�re not just three high school kids hiding from the rain on their way to the coffee shop? how many more people are going to die for the causes before we even get one?
�Her Hardest Hue To Hold� coming back home from a long day of deciding I don�t need you in my life, I am surprised to see the elm tree in the front yard has suddenly shed all it�s leaves, blanketing the driveway with the last rays of summer sun�s poured gold in their color. I can�t comprehend their sudden appearance, the sudden abundance of nature�s First Gold or that things can change so quickly. It only took a week for everything to fall apart between us and an afternoon for the genocide of these leaves.
If There�s Anything I�ve Learned From You:
Regrets will kill you
Conversations �I haven�t dreamt in awhile but I�ll try� he said, before saying goodnight. It�s always that way between him and I, me always wishing things for him so impossible, and him always failing but trying. (I told him �sweet dreams�) I don�t want to love him anymore because most days it�s too much, and love sits like a weight on my chest, keeping me from breathing. I guess I�ll go to sleep tonight, even though it�s been so long. I�ll let the music rock me to sleep, once again, and hopefully get some rest. (I haven�t dreamt in awhile but I�ll try)
This Poem Is About Sex And everywhere, every day, poets have written about their illicit loves their painfully exquisite in and outs and rapidly slow descents to ecstasy. e.e. would say her eyes were big love crumbs, Marvell beseeches his coy mistress �please, please hurry� �I�m running out of time to find my inspiration� let me love you now. the quick inhale of passion, the over and over again of almost too much poets, poets, writing for days about the act of loving, and not understanding they say all in a pregnant sigh. |