You have a funny way of slipping in my head, boy.
It takes something so trite: a license plate with
your home state, or maybe the color red, which
I’ve seen you sport so well. I don’t understand
why it is your face I picture peering under my
skirt, reminding me that I should love my thighs.

I cannot figure out what you’ve done to earn
this regard from me. Perhaps there was a piece
of wit or a charming blunder, or a small shoulder
clutch that caused me to spin. Or maybe it could
have been the way I’ve seen you love her
before she made her final exit from your stage.

All I know is your image etches itself into my
grey matter, restructuring the terrain. You have
embedded yourself in my head, boy. I could
sustain a night from one glance as you walk past
on a cold morning and nourish my days with
the hope that I can soon feast on memories.

07/23/2005

Posted on 07/04/2007
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