ink-stained sheets and melted snow

.i.

There's an old receipt in my pocket, from that road trip last summer. Sometimes I pretend it's a picture of you… I like to think I can carry you around with me. (You can live in my pocket if you want.)

.ii.

Sometimes I try to speak, but the words dissolve in my throat. I think the sea witch stole my voice. I bet she keeps it in a shell around her neck. I don't know what I traded for it, but I really hope it wasn't a prince.

.iii.

You want to sleep in the snow, but I can't let you. It's the kind that you'll fall asleep forever in; you'll never wake up. Stay with me, just for a little while. I can hear the snow melting outside, all the icicles have disappeared; it's almost over, stay with me, just for a little while longer, this winter is almost over.

.iv.

Ink-stained sheets and callused fingers. He died with a paint box by his side; I'll die with a pen in my hand. I'll put words in the Atlantic and wait for them on the other side; they'll be buried in the sand and I'll find them someday. Ink-stained sheets and callused fingers, it's only natural.

twothousandsix

.onetwothreefourfivesixseveneightnineten
place i still call home (love)

.onetwothreefourfivesixseveneightnineten
people i thought i knew (just forget)

.onetwothreefourfivesixseveneightnineten
goodbyes i wasn't prepared for (gone forever)

.onetwothreefourfivesixseveneightnineten
months i never want back (keep smiling)

.onetwothreefourfivesixseveneightnineten
nights in the lake (naked under stars)

.onetwothreefourfivesixseveneightnineten
of us will always be there (wait for summer)

.onetwothreefourfivesixseveneightnineten
missed calls (can't forget)

.onetwothreefourfivesixseveneightnineten
circles we walked at midnight (never got dizzy)

.onetwothreefourfivesixseveneightnineten
months i've known you (surprise me)

.onetwothreefourfivesixseveneightnineten
secrets i haven't told (not meant for you)

it'stheendoftheyear.

aphrodite watches me sleep

Aphrodite watches me from her hiding place in the corner, between the painted parrot and stack of firewood (it'll never be burned). She watches me sleep on the brown-and-yellow flowered couch, and her shy smile matches mine.
I remember when the scratches on the Bill Cosby albums would lull me and my cousins to sleep; now it's the sound of Grandma's television and machines (she's still breathing).
The clock is stopped just before 12, this room is always on the brink of midnight. There's forgotten literature on the shelves and Grandma's articles are crawling out of the dust (I'll be a writer like her maybe someday.)
She calls for him, glasses of wine and seltzer, she's always calling for him. He's wearing the "Beth Ann shirt", the one he wore the first time he held me (it's mine, but I let him wear it). Tell me stories, I'll listen, tell me more.
There's a potpie tin on the side of the bathtub with ashes and crumpled cigarettes in it. (This is where I come from, did you know?)

Aphrodite smiles at me with white marble lips and steps into the cloth she's been holding for so long. I'm content; I am sleeping.