It’s 5:38 in the afternoon
and the back of my neck is ripe
from the blisteringly beautiful sun
that makes everyone glow
like we’re in heaven
and makes the grass so bright
that it’s not really green.

It’s something better than green.
I love words.
Words are the whores of
everything beautiful.
Cheap imitations of the things
that make you sit back
and catch your breath.
Speechless.

Words can’t help me tell you
about my father’s funeral
when I stared at his five by seven portrait
and wished
that I didn’t have his clear blue eyes
or his button nose
that you find so adorable.

Words won’t even let me tell you
how much I hate your lip gloss
but how badly I want to kiss you anyway
because when my face
is in your face
and I breathe in
when you breath out
you keep me alive.