We bake clay
in the awkward light,
given to us by the consequence
of sunbeams hitting the headstones.

Threads pulled raw
in the afterglow thoughts,
cause the violent to twitch,
as the actual remain unscathed.

She runs through
the minefields of my mind,
in graceful time, with that senior prom tiara
slimming her figure to the gods.

In my brainwebs
she is eternally 19,
that day you ran at me full force
and wrapped denim thighs around me.

As my pressing fingertips
leave my forehead,
I'm reminded how your voice feels,
the vibrations in my throat.

Your lack of action
leaves the tension in my groin
and it's rather embarassing,
walking into stuff that's far away from me.

So it continues,
we've made it this far
without action,
what say you give me
3 billion confusing glances.

What say you
hop back in my brainwebs,
this bed has more room to roll over,
anything to get away from the wife.

09/20/2013