spring sprung whitewash mish mosh

eskape is washed from brick walls on oak street, i pull up and park outside the night we danced in white paint, black boot marks and tacate teardrop innocence. a man is washing your writing from walls, a thick hat and brow dancing lightly with sweat, its hot lately, we wear short sleeves and show sleeves and tuck our toes in the sand and lick upper lips, laugh lighter, move slower along bodies and arms, sticky, sun warmed. i picture you in shade, under trees, hammocked by sunlight, listless with afternoon, with side by side glow, i picture you in this place that rotates, how many days does it take the earth to move around the sun, a place with years and time, a place, yellowed, old cornered photographs, i hold you closely under glass and look at you when you are not near me, kiss your face at bedtime, write you love letters, cross t's and dot the i's in your name with hearts in notebooks during meetings. it is here, this soft spoken whisper place, that makes dreary, deep night seem safe and warm. im not afraid of you anymore. im not afraid of anything anymore except being away from you for too long, and after this long, you are never that far away.
mary magdalene in the mission makes change noise in pockets, dollar stores and fruit flies, postage stamps stuck to heels and im in a rush. im in a hurry, slow down, slow down, get a pen, write this down. new carpet underfoot and different sounds, putting head to pillow, wake up achy, i dont sleep, i never ever sleep, wide windows flung open and shower leak. tread lightly, hurry before the paint dries, tuck me in, lock me in, i'll put your art up in my room and make this a home again, grass nests in trees, i tell them, build higher, go higher, make it safe enough to sleep in, twine and clover, dirt and sour grass, whatever it takes to protect what you love.