Thursday, July 5, 2012

I don't want to write about you. No, not just yet.

This is not a poem or so it seems.

It's too early to write about you, 
your slender bones, your feminine hands, 
your pitch black rooted hair, 
and the way their ends curl like your lips' vermilion border.

The ink under your nails, 

the smell of acrylic paint. 
The smell of your perfume and what's left to linger on my skin. 
The warm flushes of where your hands have been.

Your black t-shirts and boots. 

We have the same boots. 
We like the same things. 
Johnny Cash over Elvis.

Arm brushes, side glances.
Shotgun. Pavements. Half awake drives.

Lingering stares. 

The high pitched voice when you get excited.
Just like a little boy. 

And I'm a little girl.
Daddy told me to stay away from strangers. 

We are strangers. 

You killed me in another life and now you pay the price.
Keep me alive. 

Keep me alive. 
Don't let the vampire bite.
Those sad eyes.

Denim jackets. 

Tight embraces.
Crooked teeth.
Mutual silence. 

And the space between.

It's too early. Too early to write about you. And I don't want to.
And you should get out of my head because you don't deserve something like this.
A sloppy cluster of words written out of an immature whim.
I am old bones under young skin.
And you like my bones don't you?

I need to stop. 

And it's hard.
Because I want to write you a well thought poetry and this is all I can conceive.
At this hour. 

At this state. 
I feel defenseless. And naive. And dumb.
I'm like a five year old kid. 

Give me candy.
Tell me how much you like me.
Tell me how much you like me.
Tell me.
I promise you I'll write you something, something beautiful you'd want to always keep me.
But not now. Not now.
Way too early.

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