Tell Me A Story

There is a couch where you sit in the evening. It is covered in blue suede and a hiccup. It looks Victorian and feels safe. Your head aches. You are trying to write things down in a way that matters. She wears white and sits down next to you. You acknowledge her with a scratch on the shoulder and turn away. Her bare feet dangle over one end of the couch. Her pinky toe has a chip in the smooth brown polish and she's bobbing her foot. Tell me a story she says, leaning against y

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,