Laceandpaper - Lace And Paper

Some never learn.

Christmas eve past found the family on powdered hills,

toboggans dragged behind by stiff fingers.

I was the brave one, the first on my sled. The one who

never held the rope, even when my parents scolded,

told me it’s better to be safe than sorry.

I thought they were silly until I took a tumble,

my face slammed by the packed snow that had

seemed so soft just a moment ago.

I wish I knew how to listen.

Addiction

Kiss me until it’s cliché and

I’ll tell you I hate you. Drugs

will kill me. Too bad I’m addicted.

You are the lemon in my tea.

Squeeze into my wounds.

The sting makes me love you more.

Our warmth chills me to the bone.

A yarn sweater unraveling

as you pull mine off in the

backseat of your car,

idling in my empty driveway

when I get home.

This end is a beginning

for better and for worse.

Lover, I cannot stand you.

I will run from this bi-polar

love affair. Run into your arms.

Give me a kiss. Push me away.

Even the unending waves must

come and go with the tide,

pulsing steam on frozen windows.

Repentance (Part Three of To Save A Wretch Like Me)

The third and final part of the collection, To Save A Wretch Like Me, contains the resolution for the lovers as they reach their rock bottom and are left to pick themselves up and find their way back to themselves on their own. 

Gas Prices Skyrocket

He bluffed, “It’s the cheapest you’ll find a vintage sports car.”

She huffed, “It looks rather new for a vintage sports car.”

Love for the ages: soft, steady, slow, and sweet, or a

flame: fast, beautiful, and deadly, like a vintage sports car.

Pulling off her shirt she felt revealed, reviled, repulsive,

telling herself it’s not trashy if you do it in a vintage sports car.

Cherry red, blood red, red wood. Scattered under moonlight.

On the accident report they called it a vintage sports car.

Heaven forbid honesty! Hide your feelings, your secrets,

undercover. Like in the driveway, a vintage sports car.

Status symbols: a Rolex watch, a million bucks, a

yacht in the bay. Trade your wife for a vintage sports car.

The past thrown away, left to rot and not be remembered.

Left to decompose in a junkyard next to a vintage sports car.

Lost, lonely, loveless? Ditch the club, forget online dating.

One thing that can never leave you: A vintage sports car.

To escape your problems you must run far away.

My suggestion? Zero to sixty in a vintage sports car.

A gold-digging robbery! Get away with his money, his heart,

a license plate reading RAY-RAY on a vintage sports car.

Equations in Momentum

If one train is moving south

at sixty miles per hour and

another train is moving north

at the speed of still,

will they notice the wind

rushing between them as they pass,

or are their worlds too far apart

to make a difference?

Poison Apple

The church is cold as I perch on my pew.

The heater is broken again, third time

this winter. The preacher has begun his

sermon, but all I hear is the silence of your

absence.

My phone rings. It should turn it off,

especially since it’s playing our song.

I know it’s you. I shouldn’t answer.

I stand and duck out to the lobby.

I know judgmental looks are following me.

Your hesitant hello send heat coursing

through my frozen veins, awakening

my stifled senses. Brother Phillip’s

voice echoes over the loud speaker,

but his words are as distant as God.

All I hear is your heavy breathing.

Warm Body

Time can never erase the taste, the touch,

the heat of smooth, soft skin. My fingertips

ached to pull him closer. Hands felt my hips,

urging me onward, still forward. So much

depends upon simple contact, and such

sweet, plum caresses from succulent lips.

But this is not quite right. Fantasy rips

and he is not my warmth, the one I clutch.

Not lover, friend, my partner strong and bold,

who brings me to my sweetest, perfect form.

He is a stranger, a poor substitution,

an improper plaster cast, hard and cold.

He could never mold to your humor or charm.

You are gone, he is just an illusion.

Autumn

This time of year the rain turns cold.

Amber leaves rustle, threatening to fall.

Before long everything smells of golden brown.

The leaves are most striking right before they die.

They dance in the wind, wild horses with no reins,

As vibrant as a painting from the hands of Van Gogh.

The plunge starts when the will to live minus gravity equals zero.

At last the drop. A gust of wind. Finally, ground.

Once again at rest. Beauty: their last request.

Give it back, the lost color, the lost time.

Two roads diverged in a yellow wood.

God, will the cycle ever end?

Gas Prices Skyrocket

He bluffed, “It’s the cheapest you’ll find a vintage sports car.”

She huffed, “It looks rather new for a vintage sports car.”

Love for the ages: soft, steady, slow, and sweet, or a

flame: fast, beautiful, and deadly, like a vintage sports car.

Pulling off her shirt she felt revealed, reviled, repulsive,

telling herself it’s not trashy if you do it in a vintage sports car.

Cherry red, blood red, red wood. Scattered under moonlight.

On the accident report they called it a vintage sports car.

Heaven forbid honesty! Hide your feelings, your secrets,

undercover. Like in the driveway, a vintage sports car.

Status symbols: a Rolex watch, a million bucks, a

yacht in the bay. Trade your wife for a vintage sports car.

The past thrown away, left to rot and not be remembered.

Left to decompose in a junkyard next to a vintage sports car.

Lost, lonely, loveless? Ditch the club, forget online dating.

One thing that can never leave you: A vintage sports car.

To escape your problems you must run far away.

My suggestion? Zero to sixty in a vintage sports car.

A gold-digging robbery! Get away with his money, his heart,

a license plate reading RAY-RAY on a vintage sports car.