Melancholy Hyperbole

Poetry about longing.

The First; or, When I Believed in Perfection

In the dark blue
corduroy king-bed
of a couch we laid
graceless love notes.
The pinched divot
in the left half of your ass
you named scar
I named dimple.
ferocious toes kicking free
of ankle manacle jeans.
The plastic smell
of packet cheese melting
over macaroni.
Your cherry-flavored chapstick
rank, bruised, and beautiful
bowl full of sliced peach.
My name marked
printed crimson
into the pillow.
Shooting clouds
that we’d flip and flip
until they were falling skies.
I finger-painted my first words
butter-knifed between your shoulder blades.
Do you remember what they said?
I only had three words back then.
 
 
dwDylan Weir is a poet with work in, or forthcoming from, Mobius: The Journal of Social Change, Literary Orphans, Red Paint Hill, and others. He works at Young Chicago Authors, and is completing his M.A. in English at DePaul University. You can find him on Twitter: @DylanWeird (https://twitter.com/DylanWeird)

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