1:25 a.m. The sky exhales ropy clouds.
The mountains rage softly in their
pearly cloaks.
I tip my head back and all of a sudden his
lips are on mine. His smile is the color of
electric blue nail polish and Aerosmith CDs.
He thinks I am beautiful and
I think I am ordinary. We drink
to blue dahlias and Eskimo kisses.
It’s Friday night
I’m in love.

Now we are running. We are in a dirty gray
pickup truck that wheezes and whoops clouds of
cauliflower. He smells like rain and
midnight meteor showers and
peppermint soap.

He thinks I am tired and
offers his shoulder. While I sleep
he pitches me to the stars and
they dye my fingertips purple.
It’s Friday night
I’m in love.

We are underwater. Everything is alive.
The moon, the color of milk, washes
over us like
flames dripping into a thick pool of wax.
His eyes are
everywhere like broken glass spinning
in a kaleidoscope.
He thinks I am asleep and
tries to talk with God. I listen quietly.
He cries alabaster tears and chuckles
to himself.
A broken keyboard sings a song of sadness.
It’s Friday night
I’m in love.

Tonight I lie here alone. Red lips and
tiny shoes
and soft dirt. The fog seems thicker here. The trees
seem whiter. The sky churns with the
eyes of a
hundred flaming coils.
He thinks I have forgotten and
drowns Memory in a viscous oil of
affliction.
I close my eyes and imagine lips flickering
under the moonlight, lips that do not
speak but
tell me a story of dreams and sprightly love
and slippery fingertips,
nothing but cool palms weeping in the wind.

1:29 a.m. The sky sputters quietly in its charcoal tomb.
I tip my head back and the stars bend
to kiss me good night. It’s not the same.
I think he is beautiful and close my eyes.
He is with me for a second.
It’s Friday night.