the sand was soft
but stuck everywhere.
we ran back to the house
sun-kissed and laughing,
knowing we’d fuck soon.
you can’t take off
your bathing suit,
she said.
my smile collapsed.
the frigid polyester
held tight.
repetition
is a cold bitch
who carries pen knives
and doesn’t sleep much.
Thick white paint,
Static and entitled,
Barks orders.
Cold trunks
Rush upward
To get the last sip
From the martyred bottle.
The tree was glad
To have plentiful golden
Leaves hanging playfully.
To have
Deep roots in everything
For thousands of blades
Of grass around.
She told herself again
And again
That it was Perfect,
That she was enough.
You’ve heard it before:
The rustling
Starts with prideful urgency
But always
Ends with a whisper
Of self-doubt.
we are
the kindred spirits
who clean the dust
from a worn coffee table.
