I met her and my mind ached.
Blue eyes hiding, brown hair falling
like a California mudslide.
I wanted to bathe in her
against my better judgment.
We found our rhythm on that windowsill,
the town sleeping beneath us,
our bodies at one with the dark.
Her tongue—a Beethoven symphony in G minor.
My face glittered in the moonlight
from the waltz with her thighs.
She was a mockingbird while my friend died—
soft, kind, a song borrowed
against a flat black world.
Then the threads unraveled.
Laughter turned sharp, then sharper.
Madness stitched a patchwork quilt
behind her eyes.
One day, she pulled over
on the highway,
ordered me out like trash,
then sped away
while I walked fifteen miles home
under puffy clouds
and a sky that didn’t care.
Neruda wouldn’t touch this.
Shakespeare might have—
if he liked cruelty in daylight.
I think of her on dead winter nights,
still beautiful, still dangerous—
bedbugs in the brain
sucking at the brilliance.
I hope she finds a map
and doesn’t burn it.
I hope she finds her way
out of the forest
and into the light.
And I pray
that snails stay away from the salt,
and that tomorrow
the world smells like six-week-old puppies,
full of mother’s milk.
hello dearest poet sounds like a wild affair ❤️