just another writer with too many cats
twitter: @jillianspiridon
I was sixteen and he was all orange fur, perfect for cuddles and slow somber nights; he let me coax near to draw out his purr,
By Jillian Spiridon3 years ago in Poets
the sun blazed overhead and I felt faint– “this is so stupid,” I whispered to myself– even though the ocean looked like blue paint
Stepping off the boat told me long stories with just a quick glance held from a distance and I was entranced in my mind’s quarries,
Lily, do you remember the seaside where you dashed across the sand without shoes, laughing like you tumbled down a hillside,
i thought you were a mirage at first glance, the way you rippled in and out of sight, but your smile left my stomach to dance,
believe me, I'm trying, as June drags on— the heat is getting to me by the hour and it's even eighty degrees at dawn— and by noon I'm a sad wilted flower.
ev'ry night you kiss a girl by shadow, while I wait on your each gesture and word, till I feel like just a clever sideshow—
you thought we'd wade into the far blue waves, but I held fast to your hand and quaked deep, pointing instead to the close outer caves,
each early morn started with a new book, the fresh smell of ink perfuming the air, and each turn of page felt like a great hook
sleepless nights crash into bleak mornings' hue— thoughts racing, tripping, and building like bricks— and my mind is like a pot filled with stew,
you choose vanilla, so sweet and so cute, while I linger over the ice-cold case and hum among choices of sugar fruit while people crowd in like it's a brisk race.
Sometimes Mom made me so mad I saw red, big blotches that obscured all my senses, and I'd cry hot tears till the anger bled,