Chapin City Blues

Writing is writing whether done for duty, profit, or fun.

Old romances haunt dreams as the names of new infatuations cascade through lips untouched. Fractals of disinfectant youth wailing on a live mic. Words are like a 90’s mixed tape left on the side of a road, waiting for someone to discover it. All the while I acted as your cartographer, tracing out the paths of our body. I studied the topography of your curves, the dips and plains of your tits, your ass, your belly. Read you like Braille. So that at night when dreams of her slip into my subconscious, the images of you slither in uninvited.

He cries out her eyes
As blue as her fingers
The curve of her ass
Is unparalleled
Heaven is harsh
A fire ungrateful
Like the bird that you hold in your palm

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