you like to be swallowed
and i like
your skin reeks of
smells like you.
we sit in a gaol
because jail is for
criminals and we are
only immigrants to
coffins amuse you:
the color of the wood.
the curious shapes.
they are lacquered
like your grandmother’s
piano, a word she
pronounced piana. so you
strangled her, and that’s what
i love most about
I will bring you happy flowers from the mountains, bluebells,
dark hazels, and rustic baskets of kisses.
to do with you what spring does with the cherry trees.
— Pablo Neruda, excerpt from “Every Day You Play”
Somewhere after an allergic reaction
Something reminded me of the night that I walked
in the freezing cold at 2:30 am, lost in your part of town
on New Years Eve a few years ago.
I remember that night:
the clouds escaping from my lungs
no stars in the sky
the street lights falling asleep, I was so jealous
the avenues so unfamiliar
yet, I felt so at home.
I remember that morning,
After I found the lock
that fit the key
that I had held in my hand
for what felt like forever.
I remember you laying next to me
face to face
nose to nose
knee to knee.
I don’t think I’m going anywhere with this,
I just wanted you to remember.
I’m mainly German, British and Polish!
but now I want a Russian novel,
a 50-page description of you sleeping.” —Dean Young (via forestmilk)
Stupidly and unexpectedly homesick