Dibujando

I think there are Words for    Yellow snapdragons dying  Kissing in the rain And    The first star at dusk-- But these are not them .

i.     seven hours are spent waxing lyrical and kissing your eyelashes in the library,    studying. you mouth the third knuckle on my right hand, and memorize the hollow of my cheek.                     ii.                       tender kisses press like          afterthoughts and postscripts on my forehead:                                    p.s. te quiero. iii. you inhale so beautifully.                    iv.                           i will remember your iceberg-words.                           the door slams with                           a crash,                           like a glacier being born.      

In the early hours, when he is still asleep, she begins counting the tiny black and white tiles plastered to the ceiling of their flat. Some are chipped, some are covered by a layer of dust, and some are not tiles at all, but cockroaches in disguise. By 143 he has stretched his arms and kissed her neck, by 206 he has tied his shoes and lit a cigarette, and by 262 he's always gone. She knows that the smell of coffee will dissipate by 329 and that if she can bother getting out of bed to call her worried mom for once, or even just go to the damn bathroom, he will be back by 2338. If she counts slowly. -- Sometimes, late at night, when she has

2.  times you've woken with a  start, only to realize what  day it is.  In all honesty, you'd rather  have stayed asleep.  4.  cards this year  but not one is from your grandmother  in Idaho.  Either she has forgotten you exist again,  [god knows she never liked you,  hopeless, pathetic middle-child  that you are,]        or she is dead.  you really musn't get your hopes up.                                    7.                                    cups of coffee. phone calls                                    from ex-boyfriends.                                    tears.     11.     people have forgott

1995 we dig a hole to china in the sandbox two feet deep. we name it victory and cry on tuesday when the janitor comes at night and fills it in quietly, tamping the sand with his broad hands. 1999 alice jennings sobs in the bathroom. i wash my hands five times before i ask what is wrong. “fuck off bitch,” she says. “ok,” i say, and dry my hands carefully. later i will draw her a picture of a sun, fold it into an origami star and then go home and tear it into 1,000 pieces. 2003 he dies. they say he probably didn't even feel a thing, and i think about how i don't feel a thing, either. 2006 we lay nak

Water droplets evaporated off of the shower tiles and she missed the star-patterns they cast on the tired bathroom wall. Last week she sketched their approximate constellation on the back of her introduction to Hispanic Literature essay, and her professor returned it with her galaxies circled in red. "What were you thinking?" In all honestly, she would have to say she doesn't know. --- She sticks post-it notes to the walls with little phrases, interesting questions, sad stories told in six words or less. People shrug their shoulders and roll their eyes when they see them, but her wall is now covered in pinkyellowgreenblue thought and God,