January 20, 2012

As for some antiques

I wrote this a long time ago. When things were fresh. Dramatic. Their newness imbued them with a some sense of worldly importance at the time (about 2 years ago).

We're sitting cross-legged
knee to knee
foreheads kissing
You tuck a strand of my hair behind my ear 

- as is customary - 
hand perched on my shoulder
I hesitantly hold you 
you lean back, pulling me from my waist on top of you
then turning us
like rolling down a hill
arms stretched out above
laughing as the dizziness goes to your head -
i can't see straight


Why ever stand up?

when we could stay here
under this willow.

grass tickles my legs

or is it you?
one grasping my neck, the other on my hip

- always the one to take control. 

then you push my shoulders down
my vision blurring

head spinning
bodies fumbling

I can't see straight.

hands pinned, up against walls

I can't see straight. 

but i hold us back
i hold me back
and I stood up.

My vision shakes
I lay down
I press myself to the ground
yell at the dirt
why won't my head spin?

where did the willow go?

Sharp edges taunt me. 

Come back, this time
we'll stay there.

We'll stay with the shaking edges
and soft corners
the dim closeness you get when someone
is too close to your eyes to see anything.
I don't want to see anything.

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