04-11-2013, 02:40 AM
Souvenir
I hear the girl next door moaning in ecstasy,
and I smugly smirk because this means that she can hear me, too.
I can smell the air conditioning, like lint collected from the dryer.
My clothes discarded on a chair a southern chain-gang's length away.
A cold hand lolls up the back of my neck,
dabbing with thumbprints the beads of sweat that gather there -
Cool Hand Luke in the South Loop.
I can smell the air conditioning, like gasoline for a lawnmower.
I was supposed to call my mother on Tuesday -
take your cigarettes and get the fuck out,
I need you to go so I can be able to lie to my mother on the phone
about what I've been doing since February.
"Fuck you, Anna." You pretend you're still asleep,
the brilliant book of adversity that you are, sleep talking through a smile.
You pick up my bracelet from the nightstand,
begin trailing it's chain against my back, cooly licking fresh scratch marks.
Face down in the cold pillow - I need you to leave, I need you to leave.
I can smell the air conditioning, like rain evaporating on the asphalt.
You mutter some obscure line from a movie I must've seen with my dad,
summon your jeans from my floor, and leave before the mattress cools.
You'll call tonight anyway, with rum and a new pack of cigarettes,
the torn collar of your t-shirt revealing a prophetic tattoo
as you slouch in the door, pretending to be Paul Newman.
You know, them chains ain't medals.
You get 'em for making mistakes.
The charm bracelet cries out for you as you saunter out the door.
You abandon it against the nape of my neck,
and lead paint is cold.
I hear the girl next door moaning in ecstasy,
and I smugly smirk because this means that she can hear me, too.
I can smell the air conditioning, like lint collected from the dryer.
My clothes discarded on a chair a southern chain-gang's length away.
A cold hand lolls up the back of my neck,
dabbing with thumbprints the beads of sweat that gather there -
Cool Hand Luke in the South Loop.
I can smell the air conditioning, like gasoline for a lawnmower.
I was supposed to call my mother on Tuesday -
take your cigarettes and get the fuck out,
I need you to go so I can be able to lie to my mother on the phone
about what I've been doing since February.
"Fuck you, Anna." You pretend you're still asleep,
the brilliant book of adversity that you are, sleep talking through a smile.
You pick up my bracelet from the nightstand,
begin trailing it's chain against my back, cooly licking fresh scratch marks.
Face down in the cold pillow - I need you to leave, I need you to leave.
I can smell the air conditioning, like rain evaporating on the asphalt.
You mutter some obscure line from a movie I must've seen with my dad,
summon your jeans from my floor, and leave before the mattress cools.
You'll call tonight anyway, with rum and a new pack of cigarettes,
the torn collar of your t-shirt revealing a prophetic tattoo
as you slouch in the door, pretending to be Paul Newman.
You know, them chains ain't medals.
You get 'em for making mistakes.
The charm bracelet cries out for you as you saunter out the door.
You abandon it against the nape of my neck,
and lead paint is cold.