he spoke sanguine to me.
tripping on harp-hearted stilettos. mellow smoke rails
and a nicotine lip. for good measure
a pocket-book romance. that he keeps for the rainy days
when his eyes won't dry. and the stars fall like ashes onto the wet cement
clutching reality with his right hand. standing under a streetlamp
and they've always told him that
these were the best days of his life.
wind whispering sweet tones of anguished cries.
he'd lie to me- if it would make my world turn orange
because he never liked the taste of these sunken blues.
speaking in tongues marked by periods of silence.
puncutated to fit the needs of whoever kept his depth at bay.
and he'd always tell me I was never meant to weather this storm.
and his voice rang when he sang Janis to the treetops
telling his baby to cry. and saying how one fist in the air is meaningless
when the crowd remains seated.
and he'd sit on the curb. these were the best days of his life
when he spoke stucco heartbreaks. lacing each thread with innocence
he'd tell me to dance to his pulse- but my feet kept slipping
cutting his blood-flow. as he spoke to me in vibrant reds.
these humid nights take my breath away
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