anasavage

 The woman wore a blue polka dotted shirt dress which swung to and fro at the bottom as she walked all over the kitchen preparing the tea.  When the pot let forth a high scream she took it and poured it into two cups and stirred a spoonful of sugar into each.  Then she placed one in front of her daughter at the table and one in front of herself and sat down.  Her daughter gripped the cup and watched the stream trickle upwards and then looked up at her mother.    "So do you want to hear about it?"    "About what dear?" Her mother sighed and the tea rippled beneath her.    "About my vacation with the girls."    "Sure, tell me."    "We

I gaze out upon a dark, blue ocean, with my breath turning white against the air. I take the gloves off my hands, and finger the icy water tenderly-- trying to hold onto it, but it runs away, through the cracks and I think; I am just a lake-- a lake made of tears and melted snow. A lake who's bottom can be reached by a boy with out-stretched fingers. I am just a lake, that wants to be an ocean that wants to be the salt that clings to the inside of lips I want no one to reach my endless depths, and yellow submarines to never touch my floor. But I am just a lake, where fish come up to nibble on swimmers' toes and are cau

I wander down the speckled streets, eyes closed, hands strumming my guitar.  They move in time to the city life, slower then faster. I see two men "shaking hands", while discreetly passing a bag of weed through their palms.  One laughs as he walks away empty handed.  The other stands there for a second, smelling the pungent drug, embracing it.  My guitar strings reverberate with his longing, slow and painful. My hands begin to stroke faster, as a women wearing a mini skirt, fur jacket and six inch heals approaches me.  She bats her eyelashes and caresses my arm, but I keep walking.  She stands dejected and disappointed and my hands move slo

"Nothing can happen more beautiful than death." -Walt Whitman The alarm clock on the bedside table rang shrilly, calling the still, blanket-covered creature beside it to duty. Even after spindly fingers pressed themselves upon the snooze button, the abrasive shriek of the clock still rattled inside him.  As the pale figure emerged from the bed, his sheets fell to the floor and revealed an angular looking man with iridescent skin, who stretched with his hands over his head, nearly touching the ceiling in his height.  He slowly reached toward a hook on the wall on which a black cloak hung.  He draped it carefull

My fingers follow the falling sun-- as I sit and wait until there's none. I trace It's winding path across the summer sky and painfully wish that I could fly. The heat's embrace, amidst the red, the yellow, the orange that spread, could coat my body, head to toe, and tickle with it's fleeting glow. My wings would bisect the sky, and fill the spaces with euphoric cry. My freedom there will have won in the blazing glare of sun. And when I tire of lonely play, and when the sky begins to gray, I'd run up the clouds like stepping stones to end up in a place where I'm never alone. But instead I sit upon this hill forlorn. waiting f

... broken pieces of glass create rainbows on his face as he looms over the gum-flecked sidewalk.  the sound he makes as he treads over them, is our song.  i want to tell him this but his eyes cut me deeper than the shattered bottle and his sand paper hands are rough on the small of my back as he pushes me into the street, to avoid the mess.  he looks up at the window from which it had fallen and i feel him wish he could be anything but a raindrop man in the midst of this stormy city. i know i’m holding him back.  i know i’m his water cycle-- the force that keeps recycling him from the sky.&

when i was little, kisses were “lip hugs” and big brothers were happy people.  little plastic bags were never hidden under his pillow and his clothes never smelled like bad things.  those were the days when instead of climbing out his window to make smoke rings with his friends, he would twirl me in the air and say that someday i would find someone like his miranda to lip hug. miranda was the girl that would come over for dinner with smiley eyes and yellow, flowered dresses that twirled when she walked.  we would play tea party and she would teach me songs that we would sing until it was time for her t