Sunday Morning

and I haven’t been fucked yet. But there’s
still time left in the day. The sun is at half
and the boys are dancing by the fountain
and I have coffee and a memory of you
last night on the couch, kissing me for every
chapter of every book you read. Your fingers
spread me like a story you don’t want to know
the ending of. Until you do.
I don’t know what I want. Until I do.
Your fingers in my mouth.
That moment when the edges of the world
are outlined in the wrinkles of your skin.
I don’t want to say your name
but it is summer and there are flowers
on the kitchen table and every time
you open me I become a new story
of my love for you.


Back of the Envelope

Image taken with iPhone while writing.
Words written in the booth in the back.
Ears On Lais
Time Taken four minutes.
Brain On Sunday morning waffles. The joy of being an adult.

This entry was published on July 8, 2012 at 12:32 pm and is filed under July, Poems, Seattle, Self-Portraits. Bookmark the permalink. Follow any comments here with the RSS feed for this post.

2 thoughts on “[164]

  1. beautiful. want*

  2. Hal Davis on said:

    Can fly far in four minutes.

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