Thursday, December 8, 2011

up from the basement, cold air on warm skin*

*This is not specific. This is not what it seems like. Probably.


You're stunning; trust me, this once.

I know what you keep in your pockets: forgetfulness, pity, rage. And maybe when it's cold outside, you wrap up in a little spite. 

Take it off. Yeah, take it all off. You know who you are: impatient and cathartic, wistful, bored by... everything and amazed by... everything and satisfied by... nothing. Yeah, you really know who you are. You're not very impressed by me. I like it. You're not very impressed by me. I hate it. You're a sort of hard to describe with English adjectives: how about impassive? How about starry-eyed? How about hungry? And how about uncorruptable? Yeah, that. Uncorruptable

I've gotten pretty good and picking out the gods from the peasants but you... you blur the lines. How can someone so desolate want to live so much? So much. I've never seen someone survive the way you do. You're terrifying. Everyone says so. You weren't what we expected. We all know the shape of you. Your hands. You have a really good poker-face.

Stop taking things seriously. And stop telling the truth all the time. And don't cringe, this isn't about you.

Take a raincheck, baby, I'll be here all year.

This isn't a love poem.
-Avery Jalaine

1 comment:

  1. Don't lie, baby.

    It is a love poem. And it's about me.

    Alex wrote about you; you wrote about me.

    Okay, but in all sincerity, this is really great, love poem or not. It's good. You're good.


Oh thanks. You're pretty.