emilysing
There he is, out the window in the water. Cold coffee on the bedside table with rose petals floating in it's darkness. You haven't dressed, you stand wrapped in the pink floral bed sheets, on bare feet. Your hair shines brightly in the afternoon sunlight, as you watch him rise up his skin glowing in the sun, wading towards the beach, palm trees swaying in the wind.
Books under their arms they all marched up the hills. Some had all sorts of exotic fruits and breads and cheeses in their bellies while others hadn't had anything in days. At home some had beds while others had mats, but they all wore boots that crushed the spring clovers. Books under their arms, guides to refer too in case the leader was shot, in case their partners were shot, in case they were shot.
Does that girl sitting out under the McDonalds sign, with her cowboy boots on the pavement, cigg between her index and middle fingers, sunglasses on twenty minutes before midnight...is she an Ashley, or is she an Ashley? Girl from nowhere-town Midwest headed for the big city, dressed like someone with a past. Sure, when white girls wear cowboy girls it's cute, but when you wear them you're just a Beaner.
Kiss him from the neck to the chest to the belly to the legs, then lick your way up again, The cells can drip out of your mouth, honey, but that still doesn't make them yours. The truth is you're gonna make a lot of men miserable, so many that you won't want to keep them all.