Do not sit on her driveway, shivering, especially at midnight. She often goes out without you; that should be enough. Do not smoke while you wait. The cigarette in your hand is a pistol, sending bullets of smoke straight to your lungs. But more importantly, the smoke that billows around you will only remind you of her touch. She’ll send you away with a “go home; get some sleep” and a light wave. Do not pout. You’ll trap the cigarette but never her hand. Do not let her kiss you on the forehead (right below the purple beanie she longs to wash because you wear it too much). You don’t need her sympathy. Do not sit there and watch her walk away. Your tattered green Converse will feel like bricks, and you’ll long hold onto her hips. Do not think of her words or try to make sense of them. They’re only a haze stretching across your mind, like a cat in the humid summer air.

A revision of this. 

The young girl, walking into Gypsy for the first time, notices she was being watched. He had strolled in, whistling a tune under his breath. He taps his fingers on the counter, a staccato just begging to touch skin. His eyes fix themselves on her, hand clasped around a glass of whiskey to steady himself. He seems to be a ball of nervous energy. The bass thrashed and twisted against her chest, pumping like the heart she had tried to forget. The dimness of the place made her feel cloaked. Her gaze studied the crowd, consuming it all in one slow gulp. Their eyes met, and he asked her if she wanted to dance. She pointed to her five and a half inch heels and said, “These weren’t made for standing still.” After a couple of rounds on the dance-floor, he flies out the back door like a shot.

The Broken Clock in My College’s Hallway

I stare at you and wonder
how many lost ticks are locked inside
your interior, screaming to get out.
It’s now 8:45 always, and I still
don’t know what made you stop.

Surely it was more than just a slowing
of gears or the forgetfulness of the technician.
You used to work like a heart,
pulsing away within the stacked lines
of a ribcage, always strong and steady.
Did you give up on trying to mimic time,
let it slip through your black hands?

While you worked, I always ran too fast
down that corridor; often slipped, fell,
and laughed at myself before
anyone else could join in.
But you, my landmark, never faltered.

I was always rushing to a new locale,
a moving pinpoint,
mapping my next move
with my schedule in hand.
Yet I paused to look
up at you, to see your hands
slide over the numbers like a smooth wave.
You were my anchor.

I turn and retreat,
steps murmuring down the hallway
and you sit in position,
now only rooted in wires.

Swim, just below the glittering surface.
Long lithe limbs oppose the water’s current. I
swim, yet I am gulped
down by the Mediterranean, like a small
fish in the stomach of a shark. I
swim and the water eclipses me.
As I beat up against it, it ripples like the reflection
of a blood red moon. I
swim and wrestle back to shore. I emerge
on the gray and black sands, akin to walking
on the sky’s stars. When I don’t
swim, I am like the undersides of the jagged stones
lining the edge of the beach, wet and battered against. When I don’t
swim, I am roughed up until I become smooth,
naked skin bearing my opponent’s sheen. When I don’t
swim, I become partly submerged
puzzle pieces, broken off and alone.

For a throat lined with velvet,
the words can only go up
brushing and scratching against it,
polishing it
until it becomes
smooth stone to build upon.