The Champagne Soapbox

Sometimes I feel like that dog in a window, waiting to see you pass by. Jumping at the key turn, time resuming and forgoing her whining cry. My car is quiet during normal procedures, echoing the constant funeral procession of sniffling quiet. Ruminating engine and the same car. I come home to dead flowers and dusted poems with words. I take care of things with time. Stationary with my birthday, and words. 

Red like roses or lipstick or wine and passion and flats, sweaters or brake lights and swollen eyes. Blue like boys and baby eyeshadow and beer or screens or quietness, crystals and sea foam, my recurring round-trips to Detroit. You say I’m like the ice I freeze. Chewing the red skin of my lips with my teeth either an oral fixation or immaturity. My cold stare and your radiation. Words and writing, all so quiet. Purple hickeys from who knows, I know. Well-ish. 

Drink you spilled all over the seat. There’s a stain on my pants, so I wash it clean. Their face falling asleep becoming resolve of day anxiety. I watched their cheeks react to the pillow gravity. I think we’re like fire and water. Signs. You’re burning up, I’m cooling down. Constantly down and filled up. She’ll wake me up, he’ll wake me up. Cherry rouge and big water gulp.