Los Angeles

I was engraved into the heart lines of novels.

There were lights streaming from all angles,

cutting me raw into

a night that wouldn’t take me,

and I found myself quoting books

because writers can feel things better than me.

Have you heard of Los Angeles?

My God, how wonderful blue eyes look on beaches.

The flowers trickle down her face sheepishly

because no one ever touches her face with confidence.

Except her.

She was an exception of all sorts.

No, but would you take me there?

We recognize now, as established people,

that homes are not barricaded by white bricks and revolutions.

They say they are found in people,

but they say blue eyes are like the ocean for a reason.

Homes cannot be barricaded in bones, either.

You sure you want to go?

Don’t cut me open as the lights do,

but don’t leave me in the darkness

of your pupils that radiate a love I cannot hold

in my chest.

I do not house such things carefully.

I do not watch them like an adult should.

I clip flowers because I like them,

and I weave them into her hair.

Anywhere but here.


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