December 2008
5 posts
oh huckleberry,
we are miles apart, me swimming knee deep in shrimp water where the sun’s too bright while you are in the mountains blowing heart smoke rings holdin hands with your papa. and now i’m waking up every morning and not thinking about how bad things have been because we’re having marmalade mondays and treacle tart tuesdays, and we haven’t got time to be unhappy....
this is an old though but it was just for you huck
This is what is because without our whiskey bellies and empty bedrooms our toes would still remain cold every night and we would freeze, no longer existing as the down south sugar canes that kiss you with their whiskers and whom you love. Before this room became everything it was meant to be, there was silence in the wood chips and full wine glasses waiting to be spilled, and they are separate...
tell me then, why must it hurt? why must we feel continents away when our fingers can touch through the paper, through the walls? i whisper things in my sleep in hopes that you will find them. they lace my wall and i think that is the only reason i am warm. perhaps they don’t reach you and i keep writing and it is only building the walls thicker than we came even though we feel as though...
photo by: olivia locher
dear bambi,
we move like ghosts at times and others like true bloods. i told you before we are karmic and not intentional. it’s intended and i need you. need you for whiskey cider and flannel sheets and secrets and frosted couchpillows. need you the next morning when i make mistakes i can’t confide in others. and baby i know why you doubt me sometimes. but...
deer huckleberry:
what happens when our fingers drift apart? the weather is changing and i feel we are drifting. i want to see your words floating off the page. come carry the moon with me.
bambi