Let me be dust
In your pocket
The bit you forgot to shake off, or wash. Laying in a heap in the corner of your room, (after you fuck your wife), three inches from the hamper, six feet from the bathroom door left slightly ajar, as sweat and patchouli waft in from the opening.
Like that summer day, you shyly taught me “I love you,” in German. Stole glances from across the cafeteria, days later, and broke Cheryl’s heart unceremoniously after bowling, to play Frisbee and half-court with me.
Every time you let me in, liked a picture of a goldfish swimming around in circles (because I found the silken light through its rounded windowsill, endlessly fascinating), I feel a knot slipping loose somewhere deep inside — between my childhood and my 21st birthday, when I vowed, never will I ever fall in love with the perfect stranger…all arms and tongue and naked harness.
For now, in this fleeting dream about broken toilets and glass lanterns filled with old carnival animals and stale scones, I am, ever helplessly in love with the silence and the vague interest in your magpie eyes.
The grimy, phlegmy, bloody dust
In your pristine pocket
Wonderful Imagery!