I woke up early to collect data for poets
that know how to write but not how to read.
I woke up from dreaming about you,
to pointed fingers and mirrored poetry.
There is this effect of how the sun
reminds me of cool sand gliding through
my fingers on a black beach.
I lie down
and stare at the blue sky in awe. Nineteen
years old, dark tight skin, golden reflections
in my hair, I was a brunette then, pure olive
love. One foot is on a rock, flat belly
yellow striped bikini, puffy eyes behind
liquored nights. You’re an ellinitha
the Greek men would say and admire.
I write poetry for fun apparently, but you
do not know how it hurts. I submit to be
recognized and sell my soul some more,
but you do not know how the perfect amount
of ice, vodka and cranberry can knock out
the slips. I forgot how to type to remember
how to think. I hope you understand
all the secrets can only be spilled
over eyes on eyes
feet under the table
hands holding a glass of envy
it is the ways of the social media underworld,
the selected few
who have the perfect tattoo,
smile, angst, whiskey breath,
it is the epitome of everything
we are against.
Trust me, you are better off
not knowing and judging
Thank you for taking the picture.
Anytime, he says and winks
in that flirting, I’m on vacation way
where nothing matters
but the temperature.
I am at it again,
the addiction rising.
The morning coffee stirring,
the need to find all the information
at my fingertips, except how
to get to that sky again.