Bees I Birds
Maybe when you met him all that existed between you was a sentence of French freely scribbled on a scrap of paper. As you got lost in translation, he stared at the corners of your mouth, watching you watch foreign phrases form themselves between your teeth. And his breath smelled like tea or honey—or both—and your breath smelled like paper. When he touched you the edges got wet and worn. And the note told you how to say bees in French.
Maybe when you met him all that existed between you were the calls of birds. And you gathered the loose hairs from his tee shirt to build a nest—sang out in soft whistles—used the tips of your fingers to communicate found-deep-fondness to his skin-deep interior forest. And you inhaled his hair—the nest—called the scent of warm rain and autumn leaves home. Used twigs to draw the words yes, yes on his palm.
Lately she has been eating like a bird. And he dusts breadcrumbs off her lips with the gentle tips of his fingers. Uses his mouth to spread curried secrets like wild fires through her blood stream. And she favor-returns with whiskey kisses as to intoxicate him. Become the wear in his bones. Make him ache for more.
He dusts breadcrumbs onto the floor and watches her eat. Runs his hands through her hair and watches it dirty-water spread around his rock fingers. She pecks perfectly and uses her fingertips like a beak. He takes note of the arch of her knuckles, the white of her nails.
While he is blitzed and she is spicy he'll ask to see her beak and count the lies. Instead of confessing she'll point to the breadcrumb trail from her lips to his bones.
11 p.m., Denny's, Egg Whites and Toast
Men have a way of making me lose my appetite
And I leave the server asking, is everything okay?
Does everything taste okay?
I can't remember what certain foods taste like
Because I only eat them in the company of men
And when I dine alone, thoughts leave terrible tastes on my tongue
As I hold a fork, I dream of how it would feel to stab him with it
As I hold a spoon, I dream of how it would feel to stab him with it
As I hold a knife, I dream of how it would feel to stab him with it
Plates, cups, and mugs of hot, stale-smelling coffee, also weapons
If I could manage to kill him with something sweet,
It would be a satisfying end to this meal
I swallow the words in my mouth and ask for a refill
Refill me with anything but what's left at the bottom of this cup