probably ovulating and swelling with love beyond what the magazines told me about.

us, on separate dates

i'm hanging over the balcony

arms like child arms

and you are below with your big round head 

and I can almost smell it

you're like me, like each other, a juggernaut

wanting to explode, jump, laugh, dream, love

i throw little buttons at you

make faces between acts

try and do that millennial thing 

with my hand and chin; falter.

later, i go home alone

and you too, i assume

a total of four cab rides.

five!  i took one there, while taylor took an arm chair upstairs

and I'm sitting in it, in a silk robe, smoking a roach

taking in the quiet times where i feel most myself, 

dripping languid goddessness

so inspired, i practice dancing. 

fold arms over legs, make new tattoo tableaus.

i think of you

i want to show you what a good time I'm having. 

my autonomous complete loving of the self

i want you to have it with me. 

i stand up, to show you my lap.

i look at my genitals. 

oh yeah, 

the first time i made a stage vagina i looked at this.

this looks like the first stage vagina i made

an old text from an old lover and i droop bit, a kink in the feather in the boa and

a new text from you. you tell me you love me and lightning bolt birds fly out of my chest and up the walls of my room and back again.  

i wanted to say it today and was thinking of ways all day. 
i didn't want to make it weird.
we already make it so, so weird.

Taylor and i mused over it, back to the Cosmo trash advice for invented ideals of woman, politely pleasing man. say you love something about them, say you love it when. i love it when...

then you text me about puke, and i love you too, dude.

eridanos

kind server eyes
trading schoolboy
dick doodles
for less sopohmoric
pussy squiggles

now I look at you
looking at me, later.

I look away quickly
but you saw the whole body blushing
like watercolor blooming
on the drawing

If I had known you were
Hungover
I would have never
Had you carry half of
Crying Styrofoam slabs up stairs

A blunder of feathers and tawny soft claws, a duck footed pigeon where he shouldn't have been, bleak and unknowing. I could have helped, as the risk of a moment. Could have flipped on hazards and moved the little one aside, a seconds hesitation the car continued gliding by and on the way home I hear tales of people we once cared for, now dont. Not out problem anymore, these Syrian children with the same pigeon eyes.