...like perfection.Dear Boy,
You smell like Saint Patrick's Day.
And when the wind blows this way
like oil dripping from a motorcycle engine,
the sterility of a tattoo shop,
a smoke filled coffee stop.
Like sweat,
dripping onto cotton sheets in april,
a thunderstorm flashing
with diamond sized hail.
Like tattered pages of a bible
warped by tear streaked paper.
But mostly you smell like my love,
blooming through the bayou.
You taste like the innocence I was denied.
Like the words of a church hymn
half-sung, half-cried.
Like baptismal water heavy on my tongue.
Like the sin of last night,
and a righted wrong.
My lips touch yours,
and its salt like a margarita glass
and something southern fried,
or maybe a piece of ass,
and a portion of my pride.
But mostly you taste like my love,
wading through water.
You feel like a sharp breath,
taken right before a fall
the way my heart stops in my chest
and I know I could lose it all.
Like one hundred and one degrees, in April
and even the touch of your hand
is too much to stand,
or calloused fingers from an out of tune guitar,
a strand of hope from a falling star.
Like a 2am wake up call
full of lust and warmth,
a too much like home trailer
in a small town
where absolutely no one knew my name.
Like the pull of a band-aid
sudden, shooting pain.
But mostly you feel like my love,
stalking through Shenandoah .
You look like a nightmare,
because your something I'll never forget.
Like an empty notebook
so perfectly full of potential and a page or so of regret.
Or maybe a simple promise
unspoken in a car
or a thirty minute drive
straight shot, in the dark.
Like a new adventure
in a video game
a curling lock of hair
or an empty picture frame.
But mostly you look like my love,
riding down route 66.
You sound like vindication
for all the lies endured,
or newest motivation
to learn David's chord.
The tale of bad good byes
sung in one man drinking games
played in a restaurant in Santa Fe.
Like a tiger in a cage, that's never seen the sun.
but mostly you look like my love.
as I convert miles to minutes.
all eight hundred and one.
Love,
Girl.
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