Tag Archives: memory

horseradish

Lastnight we were at a party in a dream. We stepped outside and you lit up a cigarette of horseradish.

It was winter and summer at once. I hopped over little piles of snow, crunching ice. It was a beautiful day, and a clear night. We ducked and slid under a porch and crouched in the cool dirt. Sun and grass poked through the spaces between the wood, we were hidden away from the bustling neighborhood. I touched your arm. Your skin was golden and soft. You look fit, I said. You told me you’d been having sex on top of books. It’s been so long, ten years. We’re completely different people I suppose, I smiled and sat with my back against the house. You looked at me, so familiar. You leaned in to kiss me, laughed and our teeth clanked together.

I woke up this morning and a piece of my tooth had chipped off.


s/ ladd’s addition

/I wanted to tell you I remembered that day in the roses/
 

I wanted to tell you that
I do remember some things,

I remember that night in the roses
a stranger turned friend at happy hour
with the drop of a whatever he’s having
a tweed cap and a journal to pass the time
while he waited on the lunar eclipse
scheduled sometime between
us eating chocolate, legs swinging atop a mossy ledge
and
slow dancing in the last of the wet summer blooms
confusing the steps and laughing up steam

I remember that night in the roses
too narrow sidewalks pushed us into single file,
two butts, one bike, past wiry wet lavander
I interrupted the parade to wax poetic about the Pleiades
recalling the seven sisters and other witches
while she schemed a surprise third-date-kiss,
that would feel like a first
something  a little less alcoholic to lift us, 
out of our indivudual and unspoken sorrows

I remember that day in the roses
sun glitttered the blood colored blossoms, fallen, dripping and done
a tender and light-footed pair,
we were penciling new maps, fingering mosses
through the newly hollowed structures of our past
I was shamelessly swollen and open, 
walking boldy on a half-healed broken heart
and you were somewhere between,
wrapped in new bliss and deja vu
and for the first time in two years 
almost content with I am just I
and you are just you.


pin holes into the sky, part 2.

give me one of your freckles
we’ll trade a tiny part of ourselves
I’ll do you and you do me
constellations of love over our bodies

Honey Bucket’s hands move just like Elena’s
and I remember warm nights
sleeping exausted
from talking and dancing and kissing

I’m pretty sure the girl at the counter at Middle Way
is something like eighteen years old
but she has a septum piercing, moustache and this demure style about her
all of which turns me into a fumbling dork when I order from her
especially today when she complimented my glasses

I told Meg I wasn’t fit to carry an anchor on my finger
but that’s not entirely true
I was born in a fishingtown
I know the quiet rocking of boats
and otters in the harbor
I know slippery seaweed dried on rocks
and red and purple starfish

if we are different people with each lover
if they each bring out varied qualities in us
and we relate to them in diverse ways
if in every relationship we are able to express unique parts of ourselves
and learn varying lessons each time we connect
then how on Earth does one go about considering
committing to a monogamous romantic relationship for the rest of their lives?

I can’t stand the way you chew your food
but I liked watching your fingers
wrapping thread around the needles
your teeth helping you hands make the knots
and the blunt side of the needle gently parting your moustache

the reason I call myself a queer dyke
has nothing to do with physical attraction
and everything to do with socialization and social construction
so stop fucking calling me a lesbian
and fuck me


a kiss goodnight

I remember how good you were to me
I remember yellow walls, like butter
I remember feeling uncomfortable, unfamiliar
in the big city
back when I was afraid of new things

I remember your mother’s kind smile
I remember her hands
out of the city I remember the rolling hills
I shrugged my shoulders at them then
but they are breath taking in my memory
I remember the dog sleeping underneath the steps

I remember falling in love with your writing
I wish I could remember it now
I carried your picture around
showing it off, I was so proud of you

I remember my blood staining your bed
a coffee ring on a wooden table
laying in your bed
inspecting your curls, and gentle eyes
I remember your shyness
and my eagerness

I remember watching you play guitar
painting your nails black
singing to you that night on the block before your mother’s home
I remember light through the blinds
the morning your mom caught us together in bed

we played Nine Inch Nails and Tool the first time
I had asked my best friend what cum tasted like
tears, she said
how romantic, I thought
but it didn’t taste like tears

I loved you in whatever way fourteen year olds can love
you know, I’m still the same, back and forth
fickle and confused about love
how might things be different now
if I hadn’t treated your heart like a doormat?

I remember one night you sat on the edge of the bed
tucking me in, under high ceilings
I remember your beautiful sincere face as I closed my eyes
and you softly kissed me goodnight