Three reasons to kiss

Three Reasons to Kiss

His eyes, holding the weight of the truest and fullest, very first love,
look so deep into yours, it makes you disappear,
losing time, losing the world, losing God for just a while.

When you are by a pool,
finally alone for the first time that night.
Hands are wet and wringing,
he grabs them, holding them in his,
and then divides himself, pulling you into him, finally.

It is New Years Eve,
and he tastes deliciously male,
like the Crown
you bought for him.
Then, in your bed, under your safe covers,
he tells you that he loves you,
And you can't say it back.

ideas for non-fiction piece

-stealing casseroles from unlocked churches on the way home from a party. The churches sleeping, full of peace and the sweet and quiet love of God.

Sardis Lake adventure.

edit

ahem.

With a martini shaker as a rattle and poison sleeping inside—
He draws his drugged and sorry prey to him.
Girls, already wounded and stumbling, in their stacked shoes
and constricted clothes: their skins being shed throughout
That drenched and wretched night, regretted.
His walk that was more like a slither,
like love between the legs; those shy eyelashes.
He was never wholly, only mine. He shared himself.
Ravenously, disappearing into nothing
but a girl's sordid story in the morning, always regretted.
He's a poor object, wanting only to be forgotten.
But he lives still, gliding alone in that filth,
As beautiful as he is dangerous.
This is the sonnet that my heart regrets.

another versiou

I kissed a god and stole from God that summer. The god was named Cole. He was grimy in the way that soap scum sticks to a shower drain. Muck had settled on him, had laid claim in his hair, between, in, and around his fingers and toenails. In his filth, he manifested a realness that included a reckless and obvious malaise. He was discountenance in its perfect manufacture. Not keen to politeness, Cole never smiled back and never engaged in directionless conversation, which was only meant for the innocent purpose of filling up the burdened air with happy-talk. The air only wanted to be water that summer. It was a balmy- wet that kept your skin alive, sucking up all the wet. He'd turned ripe too early in his life and, worst of all, he knew this. The small college town clutched his throat, threatening to pin him down and keep him there just like everybody else. It was my first summer in Oxford, Mississippi. I hailed from a small, Step-ford-Ville, where I matched perfectly. I was the Step-ford daughter, equipped with the good grades, good behavior, good skin… all a mother dearest could request. However, the instant the University of Mississippi (known best as Ole Miss, one of the top party schools in a nation of heavy drinkers) accepted me as a freshmen, my whole little world began to spin in the opposite direction. No longer did my life gravitate around a sun or a Son. It now orbited around myself.
Something to be learned from Oxford, Mississippi: this is a place that’s antique in its traditions, confused and limited by the idea of a New South. It’s halted in development, yet trapped and loved for in its multifarious and many-times mocked traditions. These young, entitled women don their best and most beautiful and expensive gowns to the Grove yet tarnish the idea of the Southern gentlewoman, by accidentally (as always), getting obscenely obliterated through that uber-combination of Maker’s Mart and diet coke, made classy and inconspicuous in a plastic red Solo cup. It’s backwards and beautiful. The only way the South will ever truly rise again is through the sweetly drunken eyes of a Ole Miss lad or lass. And that's okay, here.

it was first summer

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Martini shaker as a rattle and keys at the hip—
Drawing his drugged and sorry prey to him.
Girls, wounded and stumbling, in their stacked shoes
and constricted clothes: their skins being shed throughout
The drenched night, regretted.
His walk that was more like a slither,
like love between the legs.
He was never only mine. He shared himself, gladly.
Turned himself into nothing
but a sordid story in the mornings, always regretted.
He's a boy who wants only to be the object.
But he still glides along that bar floor,
Beware: he is as beautiful as he is dangerous.
But this is a sonnet, regretted.