That boy's got eyes like
1992
and enough ease in those knees that I
can't help but notice/blond hair makes me
dizzy. Quick touches, soft hushes, baby, I thought
1975 was the year I felt alive, but that's before
I met Mr. Perfect in that
black jacket,
Mr. Lust
on the 6:59 a.m. bus,
Mr. 1992, maybe
because they're so d--n blue, baby
Think;
beaches in California, hands drain the hair-colored sand
and I want to hold that hand, so I
manage a few words and a
smile
don't know how far into this he's reading,
but my forthcoming manner is
far from misleading..
That boy's got eyes like
1992
and the sort of smile
that makes me want to smile, too
so I
spend an extra twenty minutes in the
morning
fighting apocalyptic battles with my mascara brush
cross my fingers, hope it's
just enough.
$14.00 lip gloss
floss for eight minutes,
spend an extra hour in the shower, scrub my
courage until it glistens
just for those seven seconds,
(flash the bus driver my pass, and
take a seat)
right behind him. Smile
sweet enough to break glass,
swap saliva,
get me noticed?
"Hi."
"Hey."
back to headphones, eyes close in
frustration.
that boy's got blue eyes like
emotional mutilation,
just stabbing at my chest strings.
"Is that in Chinese?"
i recall every moment like it's
carved into my heart.
