MadeOfMakeBelieve

I left you last week, in my apartment with my dog, who doesn't really          like you. It wasn't enough; today I found your hair in my shower drain.

Come again into this child's land, where a blue (finger- nail's) polish paints the carpet. Writings on the wall signify nothing more than a place of incarnate magic, where racecars float through a butterfly's goodbyes. A place where princes dance with hope; she tells them fairy tales when no one quite knows what better is, and argument berates dissension,       always. Grab a chair and stay a while. Maybe a baby will pull a coin from behind your ear. You'll see the epitome of a wonderland, where furniture insists on growing up, but       children stay children, for       long enough.

Cleavaged hearts break free in the mourning for a lady. Tragic tumbling umbrellas undermine euphonies. Water drops fall to my face and underline your life. Dragonflies and tootsie-pops sit roughly in my stomach-- the lot causing a crowded party. Cleavaged hearts part ways in morning, for a gentleman.

With my grandmother's pearls wrapped around my neck, you bake love and the words flow out of my mouth— where your cupcakes drilled holes in my teeth.

Grandmothers favorite color: __________________ (yellow I think,        or hope.) I read but I couldn't- wouldn't for the life of me erase the false, petulant words. You might have been ashamed— how my mother passed you on. If she were alive today I think she would love me         or I hope.

Hair falls across my face, tickles my nose and I see you in the corner of my eye singing my praises, or God's; either way you're convincing. Sopranos are silenced by a soft conducting hand allowing alto alliterations to ring. It's wrong to sing with a smile— though you can see how I feel in the corners of my mouth.

I slept upside down last night with my face against the mattress, thinking of you and me and sex; sometimes I want you. As I peek out from beneath my hair I see two, shiny eyes surrounded by teeth. You smile above me and your ink spreads among my body. I will always remember that you are imperfect, and unbeautiful. Elegance is priceless in times like these, and mine is severely lacking:          You are worth diamonds          but only to me          because I love you. Simplicity reigns, and saying more means so much less.

Mother Nature is on vacation, and the clouds are raining the blues. She's been biting her nails and every one is yearning to grow back without her permission.

She wrote me: This is the time of all things read; the time of books, clean hands, straw dogs, shared looks. This is the time that finds the time to settle down; to open that smile with enormous plans; to pound on metal rolled with rust; to lie when lovers lie, alone, quiet, in kitsch and style. She wrote me: Death for some is a careless cat, one that lacks a voice—and love— and never plays chess. But that is not my choice. You see, I prefer the quieter sort; the kind of death that stalks one through shapeless blur, a caress of trust and a lack of breath—now three, now two— a sweet bluff and a face that