day 113

Mood: guarded

A sorry in advance
  For I forget as much as I
should remember
I leave memories on pawn shop counters
They don't give receipts there
  Only cursive letters on yellow paper
Transcripts that tell me
  how much I do adore
You. Stealing blankets from
warm bodies
is something I'll grow
accustomed to.
Like loving you is becoming a tradition.
A month from now
I will love you with arms stuck in
new old clothing.
Patch your worn out soul with
numb nose kisses.
You won't feel a thing, love,
but when you do,
it'll burn.

It'll burn like freshly brewed passion.
I keep your sharp notes
in a drawer. They play music
like hand-me-down jewelry boxes.
Something
about this tradition,
of celebrating everything
in this air. It's thick tonight.
Thick enough to kill a man,
like smog on a busy evening.
Falling in love with you
feels like running marathons through
wintertime rush hour.
Of course,
  these burning tires will leave
a strong imprint on this road.
A reminder
with cursive letters on yellow paper,
it will burn
miniature mountains on the
paved path we made for us two.
In two months,
  I will remember to pawn forgetfulness
like it's the only tradition I've
grown accustomed to.

This sharp note will grow flat
by the time someone new reaches
this jewelry box. Someday,
I could become home to
anyone but
You.
Trace the cursive road.
It is filled with kisses and
a fresh touch.
I want to love you
enclosed between golden lockets
  Thrift stored on Sunday afternoons
during cold rain
I keep a blanket in the back seat
of my car
to make a secondhand home
out of blizzards.

  You'll get used to this cold,
one day, You said,
I will keep you warm with nothing
but this soul.
    Morning frost is a reminder
of free expression. Draw on me,
said,
 with tiny burning fingertips, trace
miniature mountains in nude
ink, said,
mold identity out of me.