Monday, February 14, 2011

Back When I Could Still Time Travel.

Remember those days when smoky fingers

broke themselves trying to part your dancing skirts,

Like cats in heat running through the tall grasses

On a windy afternoon.

I’d laugh, you’d laugh,

then you would lay flamenco lies on their foggy eyes.

But when the callers finally left,

and it was just you and me.

We’d share that couch

like two neo-post-grunge-modernists

making love in new, rebellious and special ways.

You told them all that you were a Latin ballerina

and I told them I liked Nirvana.

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