Writing

Juice tastes like your spit on my lips

It overflows, slides down the point of my chin--

I can see the dirt, the darker spots

It smells like my backyard, like orange blossoms in the spring time

Leaning into you

I guess I

Couldn't resist

I was tired

It was instinct

Can I really fight instinct

When it's leading me to you?

The soft flutter of butterfly wings against

My skin

Scalding water to make tea 

Eggs Broken to cook an omelet 

__

I wonder what I'd do if it were up to me 

__

 Where I'd draw the line in the sand  

I want to scream as I close the the text thread with shaking fingers---

Are they even fingers at this point?

They are just an instrument to 

I'm tired of walking the same loop

Taking the same few steps forward

Just to walk the same steps back

I'm enamored with the way we were

Enamored with the things we swore

The red truck blue truck cap

Bright blue, not pretty

Like dancing eyes no

This is down to business blue eyes hardened

After too many people said no

After too many yesses didn’t work out