by Eric Lawson
Her skydiving prose licks at my naked cerebellum like the soundtrack to Purple Rain. I swear upon a stack of combustible holies that the fucking doves are crying. She turns each page of her notebook purge with the delicate precision of a samurai delicatessen. She has been gutted by the failure of pop music love. She has been broken by disappointment hammer strokes. She has had to sew her former innocence quilt shards into something new entirely. And it is breathtaking. I want to breathe her into my open wounded satchel of regrets. But she is on a faraway stage, out of reach, out of time. The soft light halos her nubile frame and belies her rough intestinal fortitude. Does she know that if she stops reciting her impassioned oration at this very moment that the air will suddenly sour and crush my resolve? Does she know that I am now forever hooked on the metaphoria that she is dishing out with every perfectly placed syllable? Does she know that she is a keeper adrift in a sea of pseudo relationship fodder? Her vivid poem strokes my bruised ego and my shame and my ever-ravenous desire as it crescendos into verbal bliss. I realize that I have been standing on my toes, eyes closed to the surrounding humanity, pockets brimming with capitalized YESES, as if waiting for her to offer me a one-way ticket to some far off land where we will create our own mythology together or maybe even escape to a nearby coffee shop called Respite. But she is gone now, miles and years away. Her beckoning siren books of life impressions remain. As does the afterglow of a wonderfully worded contact high that is intellectual, spiritual, soothing, and always free.