would you tie
my cranberry lips
(they taste like juice)
with cardboard box
twine?
andpull me
towards you in a
a rush of oxygen
and Allen Ginsberg
screaming
Howl in
our ears
, (but there is no wind).
my nail polish is
labeled, in gold times new roman,
cherries in the snow
(I christened it
the blood on your shirt)
and prayed that it might
fool you into thinking
I had lipstick on
sometimes logic has no continuous
thread of thought
because make-up makes me
(b)older.
he typed love.love.love
and blinking, I tried to consider
the angles of his profile
forming negative spaces (like vases)
with mine, but I
could only think of you.