Want to kiss your secret mouth.
In some back alley or dark theatre on the outskirts of town.
There’s a crime noir sensibility attached to everything you hide in plain sight and I won’t lie I am attracted to that which you swear does not exist.
I was in San Francisco. Walked by a coffee shop as Billie Holiday’s voice blew out the front door like bullets from a blue gun. I entered and knew I was finally back home.
Richard Brautigan wrote about women wearing clothes better than any writer beat or otherwise. His humanity bled into the page, leaving no prisoners or dry eyes in the internment camp.
And you break through everything with your safe cracking insights and the way your silence envelops every room in shadows of moonlight and skepticism.
Wanted to hold you and I wanted to let you go. In part because we don’t even know each other and also because physical contact and me haven’t seen eye to eye in many years.
I imagine you the bull in the China shop and I the China because I’ve always had more in common with fragile flowers than the snorting beasts not even Picasso or Hemingway could possibly break.
Perhaps I’m just another gilded lily and it’s going to take a Scottish lass such as yourself to wake me up and put me back on the railroad tracks.
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