blatantproof
04/11/04, 08:46 PM
You ran your finger tips along the edge of the table top,
I folded my flight ticket…centimeters between the creases.
Farewell, good bye, good night: the words that end conversations,
Words that are immune by your handwriting: perfect at every curve of the grey.
The modest boy who holds his trophy against his chest,
The xanthophobia patient who counts down until sunrise,
The different shades of opposite colors, the static of a television.
Gender has no syllables, save the sounds your hands make.
So, put on your Sunday’s best: sneakers and a white t-shirt,
Strands of your hair that have no pigment,
Movie scenes of looks that are meant for dreams,
I still ask for you to press your lips against the glass.
Nothing but a third person word: The air that comfort lungs,
light that flood a room,
blood that run in veins,
lyrics of a glamorous melody.
I folded my flight ticket…centimeters between the creases.
Farewell, good bye, good night: the words that end conversations,
Words that are immune by your handwriting: perfect at every curve of the grey.
The modest boy who holds his trophy against his chest,
The xanthophobia patient who counts down until sunrise,
The different shades of opposite colors, the static of a television.
Gender has no syllables, save the sounds your hands make.
So, put on your Sunday’s best: sneakers and a white t-shirt,
Strands of your hair that have no pigment,
Movie scenes of looks that are meant for dreams,
I still ask for you to press your lips against the glass.
Nothing but a third person word: The air that comfort lungs,
light that flood a room,
blood that run in veins,
lyrics of a glamorous melody.