PostPoems Be Artistic. Be Creative. Be Inspired!

My hands got dirty in this circle

I had to bury my love for you in many lover's necks

and their arms were never brown like yours

their minds never collapsed me as I wanted

I guess you were the poet

You were my Chinaski and my Plath

I had daydreamed of you and your city walks

That summer at the beach when you called

and said you had thought of me

because you were drinking Coronas and

watching the waves smash into the landscape

And I kept burying myself into moving objects

mainly humans who seduced me

but your face always seemed to hoover on the ceilings

So I kept writing you horrible letters

Letters that you didn't have time to read

You liked them, though, later

when you sat down for inspiration

said it was a good read

but dressing a naked page was never

easy for me, Christine

Because I hated every inch of your guts

and it was true

all those years

I loved your guts and

i was trying to outrun the ghost

and I was watching this evolution for

four long years

Until you called, with the same idea of

watching the ocean spit out things together

We knew, we

could do it better then anyone else