star

I hate the way he talks

But his voice sends me to laughter

I hate his hair

And yet when he runs his hands

Through it

I get butterflies

I hate the way he is everywhere

But I look for him

The Teller

James is asleep, and dreaming of dreaming of a beautiful girl.

I feel her bracelet cold on my wrist

I taste the coffee bitter in my mouth 

I smell her perfume drifting in the air 

I see her standing over me, strong and beautiful

Note to the reader: This essay is meant to accompany the essay that I wrote called Crying on Rocks which is on YWP. 

There was a vacant bathroom outside the church park. 
I crawl in beat, destitute, feeding off the radiant waves. 
I stare into a warped mirror punched by drunken twilight boys, 

The streets have teeth and we hold our fingers with enough space for the others and drink cider on a corner where the ceiling above us blinks blue-blue-blue onto her tonsil-pink dress and someday I hope I never have to see it in a suitca