barber and barrow.
The green vines winding along your white picket fence
protect you from the life you can’t look upon without laughing.
You sip your cold cup of coffee and lean back in your armchair,
while your rose tinted glasses make the entropy more connected.
But the home we have made has a white, cool bed
where we sleep entwined together like a pearl in an oyster.
And the day lilies bloom right outside of our window
while you moan in your sleep over hot-blooded dreams.
I still can’t remember where I was before I came here,
and my spatial philosophies are all tearing at the seams.
Inside this womb our veins are connected,
a modern day Frida and Salvador.
I’ll bake you biscuits in the morning while you sweep off the front porch,
and we’ll reflect on the way we’ve skirted our providence.
But for now I’ll just whisper into your dark hair
that I’m thankful for those heavy breaths in your chest.
The most arresting moments I spend with you are always the most transitory,
so I cling to your limbs like a forlorn child in a storm.
Send a chariot from the firmament and we will disappear into the promised land,
where the vines that preserved you will lay you to rest.
