Tell Me A Story

we tried to tell each other I’m afraid of this desire it gets worse every time I see you hopeful for what I wonder because your tongue in my mouth means we’re progressing towards a goal I heart writing poems to you even though fucking in poems is good sometimes my heart is involved which makes fucking beautiful in the moonlight there is silence the strewn manuscript of you #poetry #love #telepathy #nyucwp #nyu #2017 #poetryfinalist #shortlist #canada #donttalktomeaboutl

I want to crack an egg on your ass, fix your chipped nail polish, read those poems you never finished, even the ones that aren’t about me. See, I’m not selfish. I can be vulnerable, just don’t get up and go. Like, we could have three dogs in case one dies in the future and we won’t be lonely or I won’t because you might leave me. I don’t blame you for downgrading, for simplicity. At this age, I really should have it together. When I walk the neighborhood, I think the flowers

From a street nearby, I wrote you letters. For months they were kept in a box near the door, stacked up and waiting. I wish I knew where you were so I could tell you things. We wound up in the underground. I found us huddled near a vending machine, drinking from the same cup of coffee, laughing at a photograph of a fat man wearing a tu-tu on the wall, advertising cellphones. The train approached, shrieking into the hour, wind rushing. In the middle of Pigalle I sat down and c

I’d love to steal one of your brother’s vintage cars and go for a spin. If I said come with me, we could be re-fashioning old, fearful things, like what people say if you mark me as your theft, or pay allegiance to my mouth by placing yours on mine. This topless bikini and your myopia keep missing the positive consequence of togetherness. I am used to a place made of fences and lemon groves and cowboy boots made for kicking things out of the way like these feelings we share,