i'm just whispering to myself, so i can't pretend that i don't know...honey, you are on my mind...

the last thursday of may:

we sat there, blinking
through the shades of our friends,
catching glimpses in the style
of deep sea divers.

we grasped each others' fevers
and i found myself secretly
begging time to ignore all our plans.

all i had kept my own for eight months
was silenty seeping
outside of my blue jean dress
and struggling to find a path into your eyes.

for a while i forgot sharing beds
and pulsatings and hushed tears.
you were just a boy making jokes
about the paleness of my skin.

but we knew so much had changed
and i told myself
of a hundred "this time last year"s
when we had been daring and fresh
and far too young to face our truths.
i needed to run into those promising arms
that fit so well,
but i only sat there, blinking.

and he tried to take your soul, but didn't realise you keep it in a different hole...

slow dancing and sunday miracles:

i thought you were a saint.
you didn't care
that i was unable to scrub
the dirt from my feet.
"let's dance again. this time slow," you'd say.

i confessed all my sins
and how i lied to my mother.
you said it was all false, anyway.
you claimed palms could heal
and artifacts could be forgotten,
but only saints had the power.

but, we all claim
saints were once sinners
and i knew your promises were as tainted
as the holy water.
i can't say i cared much, though.
i'll worship you all the same.

boy, come on. we both deserve it and if we're wrong no one will notice it. we can't stay young, not than i'm opposed of it....

ivy league:

you're headed for starched collars
and gold plaques of park benches,
just like you claimed when we were twelve.
and, somehow, i'm headed south
to make a bond with all i've hated.

not that it'd matter if i lied,
but i'm scared. my skin is never
quite as tough as my boots.

in some way, i'm convinced that an acquired drawl
will be my most prized mating call.
and with your short hair and ski trips,
you'll become the type of boy
i've always batted eyelashes toward.

like a mixed-filial oedipus rex,
i'll say it all to you.
"come on, let's get lost."

this has all been procedure and everything happens for a reason...that's how i get to bed...

rebellion was always right:

your momma said i wasn't allowed anymore
because i kept waking up in your bed.

she didn't know the things we did
when we peeled away our skin and let our cells intermingle.
you taught me of god, and i sometimes cried,
mainly because he loved you, but you didn't love him.

it was one of those things you needed to wrap in cellophane,
our reluctance, because the day it began to get old,
we no longer thought homemade pancakes were good enough
and faith became as senseless as your momma's advice.