Saturday, February 7, 2009


I met him and I skipped a step,

Bumped my head into his chin.

I met him and knew I wanted to live in his armpit.

He would smell like a spaceship and taste like mangoes.

The red dots of his hands were like an unfinished game,

Which I would connect,

Drawing a line from his arm to my nipple.

I met him and I made a fool of myself.

Fumbling about the pull at my navel,

The technicolor in my brain,

And the pleasing habitat of his armpit.

He walked away cursing,

Holding his chin as if I was a lamppost.