"Misfit kittens
in the twilight," I whisper,
two years apart from
the last time I wrote the line
and never seas have so parted
with the stickiness of dirty hair
standing up between my long fingers
holding--

he chuckles in our single mouth
when he remembers
a line that he just read
to the tap-tap rhythm of our devils
such a while time ago.

In my bed, the day's hours
that drenched in the snail's wake
flickered past in twenty blinks' time
and we aged glorious in our naughtiness
by his counts a streak of
all my twenties' greys
such that helm a wont librarian.

A panda paw and his heiresses strewn hair
covering the way her face swallows
the breaths that he is breathing,
catching each in the corner
of her sililoquy
while he goes on
with clever smirking
not in saying a single thing

(she watches in the dark
him bathe in a glow
that started somewhere
deep in the belly,
somewhere near the heart,
but with far less chance for
such advancements

and she thinks, "He is
so beautiful when he is
like this.

He is so beautiful
when he is
sucking in the life of me,
when he is
smiling with his eyes closed).

I says, "Misfit kittens

we make such pretty kitties
when we are so disdainful of our others
and we wash our skins
with each other's sandpaper tongues

and we, coyly, pretend
we didn't fully intend it at our
very first greeting today
between our half-a-dozen cigarettes
between our nudging on the sofa.

Tomorrow it will be Valentine's
and you will have your woman
and I will have my man
and we will bake in the glower of
suspicious flowers that
you will buy her
and he will buy me

and, the next time you come over,
they'll be staring down your brow."

But he makes sure to stop my talking
and forgoes all of responses
with a smirk that screams
the volumes of a silence and
a wait that's borne the bane
of his remembering
making maps of landscapes
that have changed,
waging war against forgetting
of a new tattoo
of a new astigmatism
of a new line on my face

when I've forgotten his nosebleeds
and the earring that I, once,
had left behind.

And when he leaves there are these
promises, there are these
pinkies on the line
and he says, "This part

is always the hardest."

02/14/2009

Author's Note: This is part two of "Playing Misfit Kittens in the Twilight," a poem I wrote over two years ago about the last time we played misfit kittens in the twilight with our little devils watching over our shoulders and egging us on.

Posted on 02/15/2009
Copyright © 2024 Cristy M.