Exorcism in Forgetting

You and her
in the pigment
of my mind; tangled
feet - fool-hearted,
love sick

you say you don't easily

but this growing realism
is nothing, if not
more space between us.

If not, you and her
and me:

my exorcism of forgetting
you ... Letting the noise
populate itself into single
serving seconds that I suck
dry like lemons and apples,
and you say that you plucked
a rare-raw orange from a tree
and tore into it toughly, in-awe of it's

it's newness -

it's lack of commercialism.
It's lack of predictability,

and we are nothing but
well-twined verses; the two
of us (unspoken poetry)
I write it without the will
to tell you

that, yes (sir) I do
love (you) when you're here
in this space, making me feel

I focus on the image -
the pigment of un-satisfaction
(the two of you) and me?

And age is such a powerful
pause; maturity, my high heels,
hair cuts, each unnoticed
gesture just another slash;

a silhouette (you and, I)
a joyful girl; a girl unafraid to
find herself scared to death

stretching my arms out
to someone who's hands
are full

and she is a beautiful girl,
a bright girl, a girl
born from the buzzing neon
signs, California girl - my
Washantonisum can't compete
with a natural tan, or a city
so perplexed it hides from itself
in wild, laughing sighs.

You and I, certainly nothing
more then sour marrow in her
stunning bones; nothing
more then the flavory saliva
that she spreads across your teeth,
nothing more then defeat, catch
and release.

You and I, nothing, if not
good friends.