by Brynn Dizack
our relationship is that of
art-student to model
this is your profession;
to strip down to bare-bone
& i can try to capture you in
paper-thin skin clings
like a wish
like a gift
like a sign that we were
indended for something more satisfactory
that writers' block / or silence
the song in the background
mirrored our inner monologues:
you got shy, you said,
i said, "why?"
you said "just don't."
i said, "okay."
& i smiled
i am holding this brush steady, i am
waiting and ready to
paint every word you say a different colour.
& under the crack-patterned windshield
under the yellow highway lights
when our fingers mingled, met & made small talk
(we shrugged and tried to ignore them...
hands these days...)
a small time bomb ticktickticking behind my eyes
& the atrophy of a small village
on the outskirts of my ribcage began.
this of course, of course, was due to you.
i want to be the moon
so people wouldn't hesitate to
look at me and
just b r e a t h e
"isn't that beautiful, reliable...bright."
"isn't that stunning." & here i am,
writing at you, shining as hard as i can
& you sometimes forget to look up
i guess that's how we make the perfect pair
always forgetting the other one's there
& i wish you were the sky
so i could stare at you for hours
without needing an excuse
watching you move and shift
my face would be simple and
you would be in blue.
and in a perfect world,
the sky would hold the moon.
Author's Note: i know. a boy. sooo weird.
Posted on 10/03/2002
Copyright © 2022 Brynn Dizack