|
By twinkle Date: 2006 Feb 18 Comment on this Work [[2006.02.18.23.39.29224]] |
|
I wear your shirt like a grave. I refuse to wash it in the laundry room downstairs where locusts of soap would pull from its fragile well the fragrance of your hands and Monday night, evening before Valentine's day. I refuse to tell you it was my first, a lemon of desire shaved off of Joe's bar and too many buttery nipples. My bloody skin of virginity I explained away as that time of the month. What pains me the most is waiting to sop up your fertile liquid again; waiting to give you gifts when I know not what you treasure; the strangeness of your small apartment on Olive Street perhaps remaining strange. The red boxers I stole from your closet perhaps remaining too angrily crowded into the back corner of my broken hearts. |