Souvenir

[billy]

hi apple, lots to like about this piece. love the cool hand luke theme running through it. in places it feels a bit wordy. i like the altered refrains.

a suggestion would be to cut out what isn't needed and removed redundancy

the girl next door moans in ecstasy,
I smugly smirk because she can hear me.

look out for repetition, neck, chain, cold etc.
wouldn't take a big edit to make this an excellent poem
thanks for the read.

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. i'd make this the open line with a line space under it.
My clothes discarded on a chair a southern chain-gang's length away. good image
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, why not separate the thought/speech by using italics or quotes.
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.