molokoplus
Greenlighter
I shut off
the television's cool companionship
to view the silk-strung orb of the moon,
thinking, in the feel-good romance mode
of fond memories:
of glass slippers, glass bongs,
HanselandGretalesque gingerbread feasts
the crumbs that led us home...
and how over the trembling electric channel
our mutual intentions
stretch
binding us through keyboards, through finger tips
like childhood lovers' tin-can life lines
reaching from my smoke-filled bedroom
to yours...
and this sweet story is set, tastefully
to the familiar nursery rhyme chants of the late-night tv show,
as the background whistle-and-hum
lingers in the air like an old blanket,
like the heat from your body wrapped around mine.
I just soak up the feeling like a step-sister's washcloth
and today, life is feeling
like how we thought it should,
when we were curled all up in the smooth sound of Daddy's reading voice
while inside lit up bright
about the magic of it all.
I just soak up the feeling,
until submerged
in the satisifed smile that stretched the corners of our lips,
way back when,
when we went dream-drifting
in the afterglow of those inevitable happy endings.
It's not something we talk about
but there comes a dim day
when you're sent to tuck yourself into bed
stone-faced and quiet,
as though mourning
as we surrender, like little hindu mystics,
our bedtime stories, our happily-ever-afters,
waking up to grieve their passing.
going to bed that night feels like waving goodbye to yourself,
and me? i was never any good at goodbyes.
the television's cool companionship
to view the silk-strung orb of the moon,
thinking, in the feel-good romance mode
of fond memories:
of glass slippers, glass bongs,
HanselandGretalesque gingerbread feasts
the crumbs that led us home...
and how over the trembling electric channel
our mutual intentions
stretch
binding us through keyboards, through finger tips
like childhood lovers' tin-can life lines
reaching from my smoke-filled bedroom
to yours...
and this sweet story is set, tastefully
to the familiar nursery rhyme chants of the late-night tv show,
as the background whistle-and-hum
lingers in the air like an old blanket,
like the heat from your body wrapped around mine.
I just soak up the feeling like a step-sister's washcloth
and today, life is feeling
like how we thought it should,
when we were curled all up in the smooth sound of Daddy's reading voice
while inside lit up bright
about the magic of it all.
I just soak up the feeling,
until submerged
in the satisifed smile that stretched the corners of our lips,
way back when,
when we went dream-drifting
in the afterglow of those inevitable happy endings.
It's not something we talk about
but there comes a dim day
when you're sent to tuck yourself into bed
stone-faced and quiet,
as though mourning
as we surrender, like little hindu mystics,
our bedtime stories, our happily-ever-afters,
waking up to grieve their passing.
going to bed that night feels like waving goodbye to yourself,
and me? i was never any good at goodbyes.
