havin a lil swim
i like that your language is not my first,
because when you say that
you want to take me,
i certainly wouldn’t say no.
i didn’t come to this city
to break my body,
and i don’t believe
that you’re going to fix it,
but it sometimes feels healed
while tethered with yours.
you are not like any
that i’ve known,
you are cream against a washed out palette,
the tennis montage
in a romantic comedy,
you are velvet on my skin,
a wave under a tangerine sky.
you are warm breath.
and you keep space,
yet, you always bring me
you held my pressure points
and kissed my spine,
you squeezed my hand
as though you wanted to ring me out,
from the things i didn’t need.
in the dark, my face can’t flush,
but i don’t think you would’ve wanted it to.
the first time i met you,
you told me i deserved it
in the most tender way
it’s been spoken,
and even though your eyes were still
while the sun was coming up,
i still think you meant it.
tu m’a dit que tu voulais un hippocampe,
et je t’aime pour cela.
The thought of her hands
touching his hair
makes me want to vomit.
— Richard Brautigan, “Everything Includes Us”
i am not your savior, i am
not god with tits and small hands and a girl’s moan.
the good things about me are not here
to redeem you
or be your solution or stand in the exact light
less nice women would not flock to
when you said the lightbulb
was shattered by a bitch with razor sharp claws.
i learned this
with rope burn breathing on my wrists
and biceps screaming at me when they flexed, they
could have given me a black eye
but now i just have
a black heart
mourning the family man i could not rescue.
i tried to chain myself to him, be
the good girl who woke up a child and laid down
hiding his tears with the dampness.
i did this so well i
never knew i was hiding my own, becoming a pink
orb of plush, sponge, a sucking machine.
it did not put a baby in my belly
just a ghost in my womb
of everyone’s sadness and pain and large hands that
are believed to protect
when a shadow casts from your bed at night –
see, the same shadow casts over mine.
tell me cheeks like mine
are made for smiling, and i will tell you to go find
a fucking smile
Love in the Afternoon (Éric Rohmer)
my mouth was always dry,
and you liked to keep it that way.
i got too stoned to sing,
and couldn’t remember my lines,
when all i wanted was a little
you figured everything out
before i even knew you,
and i still don’t understand myself,
but maybe you might.
i spoke of the wrong region,
when we talked about where you grew up,
hell if i knew,
but they both started with a k.
i fumbled with my orange peels
and citrus stained my hands,
and my fingernails were glowing,
but that was a wonderful taste.
you are a magnet
and you felt so right to touch,
and not touch.
then you helped me to the counter,
and i crumbled
while you rolled,
and we talked about loves
until i lost my voice.
when you cross the ocean,
and i remain still,
i will think of you so fondly,
and you will remember
how much i fear caterpillars.
Anna Karina in Vivre sa vie (1962), directed by Jean-Luc Godard