I read her skin like my favorite novel

memorizing the lines and passages of time
and tracing her character outlines

until we hit the ******

-- they call it the apex of emotion
I call it the pinnacle of her arch

because her back becomes broken dialogue
monologues reduced to gasps

while the innermost character struggles are flung
wide open, until a million errors spill out
punctuation out the window
grammar's gone through the door

my name becomes an expletive

I read her skin like my favorite novel
-- there's something different every time

For what it's worth,
You were always my favorite mistake.

Lilies mean I dare you to love me.

When you slipped out of your white dress, I saw a pool of petals around your ankles. You kicked them with a smile. It must have been cold, because you walked into my arms and whispered “Color me”.

And I did. With kisses that came and went, a flash-flood of hands over your skin. With the scent of wild summer nights that we spent chasing our paper boats along the stream.

We tripped over fallen logs who must have been lovers who had forgotten to breathe, because beauty is a drug and love is just as poisonous as ozone. I wound my toes around yours, and we lay on rosebushes. I watched you stitch your fingers into mine, and to color the thread of thorns, I chewed the inside of my cheek.

By the end of summer, you were turning purple and I had already gone gray.
Lilies mean I dare you to love me. Which flowers will dare you to stay?

I dated a man once who seemed to sit on the outside of his
relationships and watch the plot unfold, adding a few dramatic

flourishes and keepsakes for effect. I found his tales of parting
gifts to former lovers odd, I had the impression he needed Act

II to be over so that he could write the ending and begin a
new play. One girl got his guitar, another, a coveted book of

poetry signed by Lawrence Ferlinghetti. Their stories lived-on
inside a shoe box on the top shelf of his closet, and some

entries in a leather bound journal held shut by a leather strap.
He had written some nice things inside of it about me, but

hearing how great I am as we part ways has gotten repetitive
in my own story line. The question begs, do I subconsciously

wish for my own shoe box and leather bound journal of good
byes and thank you for stopping by, the ******* were lovely?

No, to be fair to me I don’t. I know one thing though, I would
want an original copy of Leaves of Grass, that is, if I wanted a

parting gift. I told him to let goodbye be enough when it ended
and that I needed to be more than one of his shoe box girls. He

was startled and a little embarrassed. I am still attempting to
decipher how my saying it needed to end made me feel like I

had just gotten dumped. Other times, I have unwittingly used
my own power of persuasion to shake a love struck boy into

the possible reality that I am not as magical as he thinks I am.
But I really wish he would refute me, in spite of my convincing

argument. I still hope for the “you are the most fascinating
woman alive and I cannot live without you” prize. I poked

holes for air in the lid of the shoe box to keep that hope alive.