Whatever catches my fancy.
Your right hand and my left
hand, as if they were bodies
fitting together, face each other.
As if we were dancing. But
we are in bed. The thumb of your
hand touches my cheek. My head
feels the cool of the pillow.
Your profile, eye and ear and lip
asleep, has already gone
through the doorway of your dream.
The round-faced clock ticks on,
on the shelf in dawnlight.
Your hand has met mine,
but doesn’t feel my cheek is wet.
From the top of the oak
outside the window, the oriole
over and over repeats its
phrase, a question.
May Swenson (via postscriptpages)
a girl walks into a classroom wearing a spaghetti strap shirt. immediately every boy within a 50 yard radius gets a raging erection. the teacher attempts to present a lesson but to no avail, no one can hear over the sound of every male student masturbating to this girl’s shoulders. why couldn’t she just wear a long sleeved shirt