November 4, 2008
By Jordan Solomon, Pittsburgh, PA


Summer nights were spent
speaking of you.
The way your forehead
didn’t match your eyes
and the color was unidentified
in the thick black
that felt almost solid
beneath our weighted feet.

Shoes take time to lace
so I skip all that
and just wear flats
without the socks.
You like my cartoon toes.

Barefoot off the board walk
we realized
that it’s getting lighter
later now.
That golden hue is fading
from our surfaces.
I like your albino spot.

Your pants are too loose,
and I reach to feel the creases
between your eyebrows.
And you tell me you’d rather
laugh off the stress
than be a pill popper
any day.

I hear the gushing water outside
flood my insides
as your wet skateboard wheels
come to get me.
I tell you I’m sick
that sandpaper feeling
on my tongue
is a constant reminder
that my problems
are incurable.
A bad case of the stripes.

I am weary.
I water fake roses
with the stale water from the glass jar
I keep by my bedside.
I stumble
only to find
carpet and mattress
exactly the same.
As if it’s all bleeding together.
Melting bagels
and cheap instant coffee
that’s never strong enough.

Similar Articles


This article has 0 comments.

Parkland Book