Holding Hands Publicly: Journal Entry I
Let love tell it and it will taste different every time your mouth runs through it I remember the difference I remember it like a thousand yesteryears I remember it being something like scars, or summers here where the concrete would eat the sole bottoms and wake you to the yawns of lips muttering crucifix’s to ceilings to feel in the blanks.
Fill them in, with the tiny heart songs we would build puzzles out of while windows, still cracked, would let wind wash the incense scent over us. The breeze stayed around our legs and left prints, God prints, over the collections of items that were arranged like OCD’ers do to keep the patterns real in the imagines.
Imagine that...love being right where you left it. In a place and time once we fumbled with house keys, balancing lies of ease and comfort around grinding teeth, the temperature like sea salt being burned into napes of necks. These moments call for us to dig nails into walls, scratching the eyes that have stored us in them, asking, "where will we go from here?"
We’re gonna color each other in, sketch the frames outside the markers, the fame outside the waning witching hours, subduing the plates, tetonic, under our balance. Pour ourselves out in front of one another. We were poor, remember *uncontrollable me laughter*?
We know this story. We need this rattlesnake karma, the kind that reminds you we left the lights on, naked with nothing, save for empty recollections, that bump us in the night.
Like we used to do, swaying to the curve of the clocks surrounding our time, still stuck behind like the sands we tickled our feet in on that beach near Quincy.
I never forgot that. Nah.
