Monday, March 14, 2011



Stay under the blanket, we can't see the sun anyway.

We smell like three-day old flowers and a day at the beach. Your eyes the color of the small flecks in an oyster's shell.

I'm still a night girl, but I can wake up with the sun. It slants peachgold rays on the flagstones and plays abstract shadows on my bare, white walls. It stares quietly through slender gaps in long branches. It rests and moves in the thin early fog.

In the night, sound seems to be muffled, and in the dark, it closes around you like a flowered down blanket. To be awake is to be at odds. You can almost hear my dreams, drifting like perfume in the quiet air, but the morning is expansive and crisp, like the taste of iced pineapple.


1. Let's make dinner out of something from the farmer's market.
2. Let's find the tallest hill in the city and pin a love note to a tree at the summit.
3. Let's sit face to face and I'll inhale the breath out of your mouth and you exhale the breath into mine.
4. Let's fill a dish with confetti and drop it out a window.


The cracks in the street are like the shape of your veins as they fill us full of life, but it's not quite the same, love, not the same.

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