Highway Lovers
You left us lying there draped across the highway
Porcupine love letters
Quills shoved into arteries
Lies shooting forth in blood like geysers
Where are your magic tricks?
We dance on the tightrope
Rope tight
We are lovers We were lovers
You left us lying there draped across the highway
Be still the night is calling. Crying
Trying to rebuild bones from sand
The castle crumbled
Rain fell in sheets
Deserts drank their fill overflowing
Flash flood Santa Ana
Oasis Mirage
Draped across the highway
Left us lying there
Lovers.
Kept on the highest shelf
Rode bicycles sideways down alleys
Ringing bells while cards slipped from spokes
Make-believe was only beautiful in my imagination
Ran backward through wildflowers
Watching stars dance with lightening bugs
Fell into bliss
Rivers of cinnamon milk and honey
Captured by heartstrings
Strummed
Guitar strings strung
Drums beat with hands bare
Feet move slow in water heavy
Encircled and entranced
Estranged yet entangled
Why does forever feel so far away
So close I can almost touch
Standing on tiptoes
The cookie jar shattered
The Top Drawer of my Dresser/Thoughts
I watch a cockroach crawl across the lace on the bottom of my bra
The part where your fingers soft trailed slowly, I struggle to hold tears back
Unsure
Am I crying because of you or the roaches?
Possibly it is that I can write comparisons
How you both touch my intimate thoughts/things.
Touch me while I sleep
That bring tears
You are gone
The cockroach remains
Your caress no longer covers his
My relationship with the roach more intimate than the one I share with you.
Tuesday Morning
Blowing Bubbles Tuesday morning in the bathroom before brushing my teeth, standing here in only dark purple underwear, the elastic sags. Staring in the mirror, I journey through the small tear near the elastic on top, my vision a thread pulling the fraying fabrics of life nearer to the faux marble countertop. Spitting, I watch surrender swirl down the sink into oblivion—Salt n Peppa blasts out of the speakers. The alarm went off at 6 am, and I rolled out of bed like every morning. Is the shaking of the walls, floor, and ceiling from the bass reverberating, or are my neighbors upset? Everything looks small up here from the back of the toilet/top of the balcony: limitless. Directing streams of paper boats/boys, dolls/dreams, I turn up the orchestra. There is no way out of the shower curtain, no way to untangle pigtails, and the smell of spam. No way to remove roots navigating through eye sockets. No way to throw dirt off a body that’s never been found.
Author Bio
Miranda is an avid writer, reader, and daydreamer, still making wishes on stars and talking to the man on the moon. She has four children who teach her as much as she teaches them. She loves spending quality time with them and having new adventures together as a family.