Bed covers don’t cover much-
only cold feet and secrets two lovers share.
particulars wondered out of window sills,
hiding in plain sight from a stranger or husbands eye.
no heat or warmth this dire night,
only bodies and throw pillows
tainted in the thin evidence of s[k]in.
wrinkled, like my grandmother’s hands
before she died and showed me how to read a tarot.
come nightstand, by the record player
a deck of red cards already shuffled,
random, pristine, perfect and predestined.
queen of diamonds across the jack of spades
and I lost the king of hearts a long time ago.
the egg timers clicking, counting down,
a wet shade of grey across our shared living.
room quietly loud, like the gasp before a scream,
and the alarm clock ring sounds like a sigh.
and sunrise, and yawns, and brushed teeth and breakfast
and the roulette wheel of responsibility and love
spins again. my heart winces at the thought,
wondering, unable to determine where I stand,
how I fall. the days keep coming, back to back,
relentless. two people can’t keep a secret and
our winning streaks come to an end.
another hand dealt, we place sour bets.
diamonds over spades, tainted, quiet,
forced to look the other way-
aces high, aces high.
Her kiss is a relapse, misfortune,
worsening of my worst impulses;
an awful influence full of irresistible.
Her words are drugs and drugs are a clutch,
til highs do us part and lows make us
whole again. Bags of heavy yesterdays
weigh down, and I don’t know what to do with myself.
Taken hands, hushed words, rushed stalls-
what a waste to not grab waist and do
a four letter word (love). Plans to keep
and make her a home, 5PM lockdown, rush hour,
crowded public when doubts double and my mouth
taste like cinders. Slipping into a thought of her
like a favorite pair of jeans.
Snug, familiar, and warm; she fits well. Run my thumb along the holes
and coffee stains, wonder what memory or feeling
the moment will settle as, when the honeys and the moons
fade. If my name will be a sigh, wistful as a cloud,
or vague as rain humming to what the radio plays.
A feeling haunting me in the distance, a reminder
that you are in tangles and I am tangelsome.
Still I pray for relapse and disaster,
addiction and her sex to once again step into me,
far from fog and drizzled Sundays, so I might tug
on her thoughts like a shoelace.
I am undone again.
transmuted misery of too many days in bed,
and cold heart and stiffed hamstrings.
when does Christmas end
and the new year starts feeling
like an old one. Montauk’s
got secrets that won’t leave
Long Island. Behind the lighthouse
inside a dark home we made a
cozy indent of what’s familiar.
stretched and spread in shapes
that wind and coil, tense with sweat,
passion as a form of exercise.
exhausted happiness, out of breadth,
grinning and blessed in natural serenity
and gentle sin. done up in rhyme
such madness to enjoy.
She was gorgeous, in a terrible sort of way. Beautiful, but fully aware of it while pretending otherwise. She liked taking photographs of old brick buildings and vanilla lattes shaped with hearts in foam, and when she described herself, she used very obnoxious words like “honest” or “bibliophile.” A little confidence shy of another Instagram princess, her measured modesty was obvious and dishonest; it struck me as a very conscious and deliberate over-indulgence in the benefits her sex and carefully caricatured appearance afforded. A glow I know is worn and doesn’t grow from I-woke-up-like-this. And from the very beginning I didn’t trust her- I dislike anybody heartless enough to prey on our rare and kinder inclinations. Villains playing a great game of charades- usually insincere, sometimes a victim, but always a monarch in the pursuit of their own validation.