by Teia Rogers

Created on: July 20, 2009

All that's left are feathers on my floor.

Empty boxes of cigarettes. Smoked in such a way that my tongue flickers during inhalation and you like that.

White hats with the stain of hands wanting to adjust and readjust. Stangers like to touch me. I don't know why.

Receipts in my back pockets from little cups of heaven during walks, the best burritos you've ever had.

DVD's of future vacations. Playing the same techno-lesbo-a-go-go.

Reruns of desert islands and men faring against underwater ocean beasts.

Toolbelts hanging. Having seen only sleepy, silent nights.

Blue hanky hanging out of my drawer. It's on the left side. The top drawer is a top.

The glasses you like resting next to worn down candles.

My camera documenting our intoxicated escapades. Our most tender interludes. Our adventures on the edge of wave ravaged cliffs.

Your mascara on my pillow. On the sleeve of my shirt.

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