|
Friday night you feed me
shots of bourbon and dusty hardbacks of classic fiction. East of Eden reads to you like gospel. Later I dig my nails into the timshel inked across your back. Polaroids line the walls around your bed; blurry captures of a brunette grinning in winter clothes. Before you touch me, you tell me she’s in Paris. Come morning, your lips still stuck to my neck, you murmur the wrong name. We wear the same perfume.
0 Comments
|
Lauren MiliciLauren E. Milici is a resident Dharma bum, wannabe bodhisattva, and real gone chick. She pens confessional poetry and believes that the best art is derived from naked honesty. She is also Managing Editor for JAB Magazine. Her work has been published or is forthcoming, in Pioneertown., Fashion Decode Magazine, From A Wildflower, Vending Machine Press, and Ishka Bibble. She frequently posts drafts, sketches, and musings at her website, laurenemilici.com. |
