honeydunce

One of these dead ends, which is it? One where I and a country boy kissed in the grass as if things like parents, age differences and chores never existed. Two things against the earth with grins and elbows, anemic shins.

I am trying to find your porch light. It is dark, I am tired and miscalculating the distance between then and now.

It seems I’ve grown into something more forgiving, something soft. The butter left out, heap of deceased animal in its final coffee grind stage, right before the grass grows over it in newborn green. Guess we all swallow thick that nothing is permanent.

Lean temple and cheek on the juke box, bottle neck in the hooked J of index. The tiny sway of hips. From behind it is the saddest thing. Your covered limbs tired from arm wrestling. The fade of the street out of reach from the neon.

We go back and rebury it. The fence of your father’s house is starting to buckle.

Pull the first floor around us, draw the table and curtains into our ribs. We are starfish stuck to what built us. Moths caught in the shade making light dim.