Pigtails in a Thermos

Poor Goldilocks. She woke in the wrong bed. Innocent enough. The flaccid yardsticks we use to measure couched in terrestrial circumstances. He was an asshole. Truly. Busy organizing the asshole convention. When I interrupted. With other choices.

The sweat of kisses pooling thoughtless at the door to the tongue. In loud anthems that never bother to interrupt the words they've sung. Busy drums beating. Stolen skins stretched across. The trophies we didn't realize we'd won. The people. Like empty bottles. To discover come morning.

The dreams it won't let me recall. Nightmares thwarted. The thump of the lion's tail as cubs follow it across the continent. In search of the answer to this riddle they call hunger.

In search of the solution to this puzzle they call living.

The demons in taffeta. The gods in latex. They all echo the same response when I ask them how far we should go.

Far enough to know where I've been. Far enough that I know how close I was to never having to ask myself these questions again.

You're not an alcoholic until you've loved one. Not a poet until you've lost them. Or at least that is what I tell myself. When words are not enough.