moqueur:

The first time my eyes rested on you
that merciful moment, they rested.
You were exactly as I imagined
and nothing I knew.
My inner oracle tweaked her divinity.
(Oh, she tweaked, alright…)
And thanks for rolling down the windows,
I thought I might faint
in the true nature of southern belle vapors
(then I remembered my well-natured feminism 
and how discouraging an unconscious stranger
in the front seat of your car can be.
I achieved resistance.)
I spent the drive home swallowing firecrackers
but it felt so good and warm. Like vodka.
I laughed at your voice.
I couldn’t quit stealing glances at your hand when it found mine,
it felt like a new toy
made of an undiscovered color
that I, being the kid in love that I am,
would carry in my pocket everywhere I go
without even knowing it.
I couldn’t quit looking at your knees
and your lips,
and how your smile stretched them to the coasts,
and I wanted so badly to be a band around your wrist,
wrapped snug, it looked so good
even if all I ever did was tell you the time
I’d have a smile spreading from 3 to 9
for that wrist.
The landscape was so goddamn flat.
I did not feel flat.
I was buxom, looped, tangled, high, living.
I felt everything in Andy Warhol vision
You were surreal, Dali, Beckett surreal.
Someone should have painted us.
You welcomed me home
to a little room with a red wall
and I settled myself all around you 
showing me the books that gave you eyes
the records that gave you ears until
my palms quit sweating, until
the night was loosed,
spouting galaxies into a big bang implosion,
into the universe inside your window,
into my new home
I’m full of moons in my reincarnation,
radioactive from the glow in your smile
(take my hair, let me turn green and frail,
but I want that smile)
the night secured me.  
And that was our first day together.

moqueur:

I knew a long time before the sun went down that it was going to set.
In the same way I knew when it was time
for the San Andreas Fault scar tissue of my core to break out the hard hats and radios for the tremors and shivers and tumults and aftershocks of my own cleansing, and I knew it was the tectonic shifting of your atriums and ventricles that would shake my world and crucify the faith I put your smile,
and I knew the debris would get caught in my tires when I tried in futility to make my getaway quick, despite my heaviest lead foot and sappiest road rage.
But once you’ve loved someone like I loved you these little pieces never seem to dislodge from the tires that mark all the places I decide to go without looking back to see your dent in my tire tracks, like carbon dating my own life back to before my heart was fossilized in the sap of reciprocation and given to the museum of your rib cage for safe keeping. 
In spite of myself I held the soft pedal down to try and make you linger a little longer, knowing that at some point every sound wave eventually diminishes into nothing and there would be nothing left. I left my finger on the key hoping the feel of my hand would remind you that I was the one to strike your chords in the silence and I knew no other song.
I could feel the rising croak of my very rough pedal crawling- heaving up my throat out of the entropy of the Fault as it said, “You took physics; matter can neither be created nor destroyed. Don’t we matter?” It said, “Honey, imperfection is a science. God is in all of us. What are you looking for?” It said, “It doesn’t matter.”
It said, “I forgive you.”
And I do, because that’s what my San Andreas Fault would want, and will want once I give it a Jurassic Park jumper cable kick start. 
The inevitability of all of these things was tangible, much like the haze of the aftershock, and the tremors in my gut, and the violin I ate for the paleontologists who will scrape the dirt away from my crises when the soft pedal tone dies away.
I knew all of these things. 
I also knew hours before the sun came up that it would rise. 
 

by Moqueur