my heart’s a whiskey barrel
my blood’s a good brew
ya know how they do that with beer sometimes
give me the sip of your lips
i’ll show you how well i’ve aged
If moments are trees
I’ve carved our initials into kites cut from our branches,
attached keys to our rings
in hopes that we’d find home together.
I’m a topographical map of a train wreck collapsed into an ocean wave
washed ashore by an iceberg melting into a stop sign.
I don’t know this dance.
Paint your footsteps on my floor. When you’re around
if you held a record player needle to my breath
you wouldn’t hear anything
but we’d look cute trying.
I don’t know the difference between flirtation and honesty-
I thought you were cute so I spread my arms like fan blades
told you like wind tunnel.
But apparently some people are built with wind resistance,
go figure. I was just testing your aerodynamics.
Now I’m stuck standing here in my awkwardness.
Are my arms still stretched like fan blades?
Have you caught my drift?
not asking you to fall for me, asking you to fall with me
Woke up this morning and did a Google search for “what does it mean to dream of antique, mint green limousines, snow, and gun fights.”
Realizing that in one word the term ‘hyperventilation’ reduces the complex biological properties of a human to that of a ventilation system.