Literature
041811
there've been a lot of afternoons wasted writing poems about you,
curved over keyboards with my spine about to burst forth from my skin because that's what you're like
a slow ripping explosion
it takes big things to knock the wind out of me;
tree branches toppling
the feeling of my own mortality wet under my fingers
last summer, you stole into my sails and made a home for yourself beneath my breastbone where it is small and warm and empty,
and okay, maybe i cared a little too much. but can you blame me? it's neither of our fault she was there first with tighter lines than i have, neither of our fault that i feel too hard, too deep, too