Maybe it's the way he sips his whiskey,
has cigarette smoke that stains his clothes
with an ashy smell, or the angered grit in his voice that turns me on
to this perfect stranger. A crooked smile with jagged teeth edges
as if from grinding them down to the root.
If only he'd grind my way.
Grind the hostility out of my life...
the pain, the suffering, the melancholy of longing for him.
It's unbearable at times.
He is a constant variable in my mind and in my dreams.
Suspended in the sunshine I see.
If only I could hold him...if only he could hold me.
Talk about all there ever was and all there will ever be.
Maybe its his presumable valor and my honor he will defend,
holding the wrath and strength of a thousand men.
A bottle in one hand, my hand in another,
his rambunctious temper and the love letters
he has yet to write me.
The anticipation of our encounter and a bottle of his whiskey,
caught in a landslide, closing the sweet worldly blinds,
flinging the door open and wallowing in loneliness no more.
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| "Somewhere Up North, Caught Down South" Photo taken and edited by Skye Lyon. 2013. |
