A worn floral print that moved through caught lines on your black spandex leggings were sectioned off like a post world war II art deco painting. Cutting rectangles and squares at your upper thigh by your denim skirt. The white tattered collective of stringy jean needed and balled from its wash and wear. It hung and swayed and tickled your skin near that very same spot on your upper thigh when you wore them in the humid gasoline soaked summer.  Driving into mountains and might be. Smooth as the road we spun through starlit streets on the inclining spirals, we circled space and kept our polite as well.  Destination bound and found;  you swam in the carpet as you forced your bare toes into the floor. As if you could stand with swans in the black of ballet. Callused points. A nervous habit you’d created. Picking and pinching your skin raw. Scraping and peeling your nails back and down.  Obsessing with time i rested my shaking limbs into the swivel chair. I spun it because I could. Because I could dance like your toes and lips. I spun because I can’t bite my nails when I talk. As the both of us stared at inanimate things. Avoiding eye contact and forcing a tunnel vision of self doubt and worldly lust, we screamed in our heads of our stutter-less truths. A silent but glass shattering, I Love You.


Joshua Tool – 11/19/12




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