Your body can be divided into small planes that are flat on the small of your back and they curve where your shoulders are. I will divide your body into small planes to measure surface area and to measure the complexities of why you love me in a spider web or across the white board of a sorry math professor that is forced to measure how much you love me based on surface area. I love your geometry and the noise of your sigh. You love to press down on the curve of my hips and my geometry.
You are full of colors when you walk through a field I made you out of chewing gum and I feel so many things while I’m sitting on a bench on the other side of you. I spent the afternoon searching for clay. You were late to a waltz between a rock and a hard place where I would have kissed you so much if you would bite dead skin off my lips. You are full of vibrating insects, rubbing your feet back and forth to disappear from your own father. I would kiss you anyway.
I tried to make sense of your time frame but it was moving much more quickly than mine. I want your mother to pick me up so we can play. I want to kiss your knees like freckles on my shoulders during the summer when my eyes are blue in orange light and you are brown and indignant at the thought of my scarf around your neck. I want to be innocent with you. I want your home décor. You are wet, non-sexually from a shower and you smell like soap and I am sexual like how clean you are. The sound of my heartbeat is bells for you.
I love you even from the moon and you decided which fallacy would move me on slowly toward a vessel of is not. You are not very often. I’ll show you something in the driveway and you will trip over gravel into my arms and apologize, weeping as you move toward a broken car in the middle of a dinner plate as I smile half away from you. This is clumsy//this is not very often.
There is so much blood in this carpet that I inherited.
I’m trying to extract it in a million different ways but you were never patient enough to teach me how to remove a sore from the carpet.
The blood swirls around itself in an attempt to make the Virgin Mary not a virgin,
like a piece of toast but much more imminent.
you’re in a mirror, it’s okay you can watch me undress. I am relieving my dress from my shoulders! now it’s slipping past the freckle on my back can you see it? would you care a little or at all if I were to drop some pink lace in exuberance to the makeshift Valentine’s Day card you have hidden under my mattress? I’m smiling while you watch me shake a little bit to release the fabric from the sharp angle that is my collarbone. you are looking behind me. I absolve your disinterest stepping on my own toes.
this is quiet and no one is home. the entire world sleeps in jealous ignorance to our humming secret routine. you told me I reminded you of a commercial and you told me a lot of things. you told me awesome-sauce and I fucking hated that. your laugh was full of Christmas. I miss you being absolute and eco-friendly. I miss your car that was replaced by your disinterest in the benign moles that are new on my shoulder blades every day. I created everything now about my concern and dates that leave me crumpled and embarrassed
Profile: Madeline Weiss