Writings

Nestled deep within my being is a passion for writing. Here you will find the musings of a convoluted mind.

Indian Summer

Dying sun clings to tree trunks,
like your footprints on the hood
of my 79 Nova, where we sit,
backs pressed to the glass,
cheap bottle of booze separates our thighs.

You are beautiful.

I watch words spill over the curve
of your Lakota lips,
and drift,
a Marlboro grey gift to the sky.

I yearn to taste them,
kumquat sweet and slick
with August humidity.

Jim Morrison begs you to touch me, Babe,
from the cardboard core of four rotted speakers.
I sing along.
You laugh, flick ashes into the wind
and shake your head.

I want to feel your hair,
lose my hands in those dark
waves that tumble across your shoulders.

Cornsilk soft.

Indian summer is fading,
there’s no need to speak about it.
You’re leaving next week,
and all that matters at this moment
is your hand, pressed deep into mine, and
this breath that we share
as we close our eyes and wait
for the stars that will lead us home.