the shooting star
THE SHOOTING STAR
take me to the tulip fields and make me drink that sweet tea you love
this evening, i’ll sweat out sleep from both beady naked eyes, weeping. i’ll sweep every floor.
blink them out like a very blue baby boy
and find the fuel to get fired up at my own atrocities,
for once wake the witch you named wretched while wide-eyed
next season i’ll seize thinking of you, sensing you in the halls, fill up from only the sourest of fruits
they drain you, dehydrate you; you belong to a dying dream
sip only from your cup until i’ve half emptied it
i’ll sleep only in your sheets until we are so sleep-deprived i’ve seen you twice, bed-ridden and we are spoken words of each other; hologram projections and presumptuous laughter echoes from the first floor, your chambers and my chest, heaving. you counting in-out-in-out,
shut your eyes. don’t look! i’m reduced to hysterics, i’ve been seduced by the afterword,
i’ve been told before that there will be more to come. so i pry them, i wait;
i am going out to catch the shooting star before it misses me
i get so close to staring it in-between the eyes and begging for it to stay and sleep in-between my legs
i’ve been cruel asking for you to call me when you have no signal
i’ve been desperate, please understand.
i have been wanting love and walking weird since i was weary of well-done-you’s and star stickers on what i did today; the same on every page, insulting
but you wrote kind things on everything, no stickers no well-done-you’s
and i give no one else a chance just you
and the air in which i caress you. never been kissed on the temple by anyone before; you turn me round
i feel i must break it to you, inside your brain i’ll carve out the creations i care for
i’ll see only what i’d like to see
it’s no contest but i do feel prodigal for managing to please you without cashing you in.
there is nothing worse than that
i am desperate for a bit of indecision when you turn the other way and take me in without touching my face, i will say please have a look
please i want you and i want to hear you say that you want me before i wither into
an overgrown out-of-date child that used to write kind words too
promise me the shooting star; do not promise me the plastic stick-on
we are not what we are meant to be so we find love in it. promise me you’ll bring the net along when the time comes
promise me the sheets and eyes in-between and the nice way you look at me when i tell you what i am feeling.
water serpents, gustav klimpt
