butterflies and red, red lips (and &t.)

mostly from two nights ago when i couldn't sleep. i just grabbed one of those mini-pads of paper and a sparkly blue pen, and i was off, scribbling a line or two every few minutes or half and hour...

. . .

butterflies and red, red lips
i'm wearing someone else's smile


(i'm living
on someone else's dime
i'm getting off
on someone else's fuck
i'm laughing
at someone else's joke
i'm hiding
from someone else's fear)

. . .

there's a place, on the small of your back,
where my hand fits into the curve,
and my love radiates outwards like heat

. . .

static electricity courses through phonelines
because
i feel your pulse in my pulse.
the lines between Her and Me
are lost in things like
point three-zero-zero of a second between our identical responses
and shared sighs,
the way your neck curves into my hand,
and the color of the sky
above our first kiss.
(i want to feel you)
(i want to hear you)
(i want to see you)
(in some place other than myself)
a week is a long time
to go without seeing your right arm.

. . .

she was wearing nothing but her hope braclets,
and she was lying, alone, on the beach.

. . .

a battered notepad and a sparkly blue pen
are a poem of their own

. . .

she stood in her kitcehn alone
and took a long drink of water.