You put it simply to me,
right below the rain, near the cotton
candy , wanded, and the shiny red ticket booth,
speckles of gold dust painted within its body,
appearing edible to me, and your plaid shirt.
What were we all doing here?
I can see the skin your mother gave you
gnawed by the sun, and now, the sunset.
I am not ready for this day's funeral, or
your, or ours, or coming across a middle-aged
woman who wants nothing more than to be called
beautiful before boarding the same roller coaster
she rode as a child. To have you be the one to tell
her sort of hurts me because I know, from personal
experience, that you are lying, but she doesn't, and
maybe it matters little either way.
When we met, I was leaning against the edge of a pool,
screaming at you to stop throwing the balloons into the water,
worried about the bar manager, the performers, the time everyone
was having, and you. You just took my breathe with your personal
statuary, your handsome eyelashes and little tennis ball muscles.
Do you remember what it was like that first moment that we met?
I wasn't clever to or aware of any of what has happened since then,
and yet it seems as if nothing happens, ever.
Put it simple. We are capable, of more.
I, too, you know, notice the glow in
people's eyes.
