love in air conditioning, quiet n cool

here, the AC blares cold on my hunched posture

the prayer flags dry on paper towels on the floor

mazzy sings me not to feel too good at a time

who trusts good all the time? nice is this vague word

i am eating like an orange, the edge of the peel of nice

stinging the outside of my lip.

memory number eight is my legs kicking the cement wall at the graveyard

from my perch. Nuzzling the pebbled concrete nostalgically

not a moment too soon for sentimental– I still know

how edgy i was between gasping moonlit adoration

how you took the opportunity to flick the worry from my face

with a soft, fastidious fingertip.

all of my love is swimming with determination

I want to scold my heart: drown! wave! something!

but she seems to know where this is.

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One thought on “love in air conditioning, quiet n cool

  1. “Memory number eight” knocks the poem all the way open – like that orange the protagonist is eating – the peelings – Need say nothing more –

    Like

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