On Knowing

By | 15 May 2023

I was blonde with a baby on my hip,
staring into the ocean near our house.
I was brewing stovetop decaf, longing
to stay half awake, as I curled up
in the corners of my ambition; a night
lamp who was once a flood.

I was leaving lipstick mugs on the sink
of our next-door neighbour. He was
a man with splinter hands. You were dying
because you knew. Whenever you reached
inside of me, my body was a coat rack
clutching someone else’s shelter.

Still, we checked the weather
forecast and dressed accordingly.
Our pillowcases damp
with stifled laughter, as we lost sleep
sharing comedy routines.

I was blonde and we were in love
like old friends raising a future
in an underwater fireplace.

You were the first person I knew
I could stay with forever. Still, I kept
seeing your car on a cliff, my wailing
hip, our lips too thirsty to kiss.

Plus, I’d be a terrible blonde.

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