i'll be in slit wrists and skinned knees,
runs in your stockings and dirt on your boot soles.
tried and true, like ghosts on your coattails,
grins sharp like the cheshire's insane tongue.
melted clocks and starry nights,
your hands on my face and i'm shaking.
pleasant and individual, the indian mile grows
longer. even from far away, your cherry-red
cigarette signals me to your prescence.
drink your earl grey tea, sweet lolita lips
pink and glossy, avert your eyes my sweet child.
we swim in the sky with clouds that resemble boats,
and we must resemble fish with three second memory,
"hello, who are you? who am i?"
that damned catterpillar, hookah smoke escaping in
weird signals and shapes may ask the same;
"WHO R U?"
who am i, fire blazing and flickering,
licking at your ankles and begging for salvation?
those two cliche paths, bodies scattered like leaves
across the fork. one less traveled, bumpy and filled
with holes and infidelity. moss covered, smoky
and obstacle-ridden. the latter, smooth and worn like
grandfather's tired working hands, almost leather
tough and grounded. erosion and virginity, pure like a
child's vision. which path do i choose? i could race around
the earth and back, and still not know.




- tyler mckenna milburn