real skin on you in a dim lit room, tan carpets and yellow vibrations, smoke tingling around your cherry hair. the white mattress reflects you in its own cotton flesh, your smile showing itself, yellowing beautiful moon, smoke erasing air and kissing your exposed arms. your parents left town last week and all you've got left is a quaint house on meadow lane and a cabinet of liquor laughing from the gray basement.
this room we're in, this room cradling us; someday it won't exist. the sturdy foundations will pull themselves themselves down, a sweet little way of nature. we won't exist either.
moths dangling in light are caught in the shallow wooden curtains that are our walls, and nothing feels real. the pints of ale pulse quite heavily in the blood stream; maybe-memories of you & i in a purple haze want to talk to me. you yawn and your mouth is smeared with redred lipstick. the bathroom sleeps next door, but you don't make it, retching in the floor. carpet keeps more memories in its fibers than blue linoleum, so i guess now when you look at the pretty stain there you'll remember tonight. me.
i know we're overwhelmed and insecure and standing too still but i guess that's okay. all of us seventeen and less are but maybe we should find another hopeless hobby besides unlocking the cupboards with sweet syrupy fire in them that your mother always wants to protect with all those little chilled bones (you get them from her.) somehow you swallow the cold and replace it with warm smiles and amber eyes.
us, me, you-- i feel the chords untangling, pulling eyelashes, grabbing hips. you won't remember me after this room-- too much of everyone else captured in those eyes. you could have anyone and i've a chipped tooth & saturday rooms laminated in light gold; you've got kisses and sparkling cider, dancerooms, fire. other lovers in your spine.
i don't want to be just a shadow to you; for you.
but i hold your hair up in your sorry sickness anyway,