Your house is a museum:
Doors you cannot open
Rooms you cannot enter
Chairs you cannot sit on
And boys you cannot touch.
Visitors like tourists
With fanny packs
And guide books
Tell me your story
And admire your lips
While I stare at the glassware
We'll never get to eat off of
And admire the portraits
That should have been of us.
Museums were always dead ends for me.
I dance in clown shoes. by zephyrkinetic, literature
Literature
I dance in clown shoes.
You compose your conversations.
Fitfully gesturing with whatever you hold,
ending arguments with a flourish.
Make a point, now whirl, quickly.
Make it impossible to counter with your unpunctuation.
You duck and weave, spin, sidestep, pirouette:
One, two, one, two, faster, harder, stronger.
You leave me confused and two steps back,
just far enough behind to appear lost and unsure.
And if I catch up, if I make a point,
you spin again, a trail of words falling like pixie dust
as you make your escape.
And as you storm out, you slam the period behind you,
Ending your sentence with a door.
And I must follow you, my thuds down the sta