I was looking into your eyes the other night
across crayon sketches and empty saucers
while my peripherals filled with your curvature
like some crude perceptual meniscus in the test tube of my attention
put to the test, indeed, with that low cut shirt of yours.
Jesus, look at 'em.
We talk for awhile
of this and that
I've been there/You know her?/That's crazy.
Back to your place, the nesting grounds
where you feel safe
where the art hangs a little crooked
and all the smells are foreign to me
and your neighbors are watching Battlestar
We have more wine and sit close
I've never felt so at ease either, it's crazy
You know I like to watch you drink wine?
It's stupid, I know, but your eyebrows go up when you take a sip.
Like each gulp is a pleasant surprise
And your lips are a little more red
and that smile of yours. What.
Then sometime in the morning I'm looking around in the light, new light.
The scene is all different outside, but everything inside still feels
like I swallowed a wad of Dr. Scholls.
Just sort of dense and tight, where I'd hoped for a little more comfort.
You're still you and I'm still me
and I don't know what I was looking for anyway
So I push the hair out of your sleeping eyes
and I watch the weather channel on mute and I think
your face is so soft
30% chance of rain.
(originally posted 2013-07-31 03:24)