Ode to Old

i don't know what kissing means
but i like it when you kiss me clean
i keep bleeding and i don't know why
falling further through the sky

funny how you say have a good day
and i like your way
pyt
falling free

i forgot why i loved you
why i let you go
but your kinda cute
and i like that you like me
that you dance real goofy
just like me

but it's okay if we don't make out
or have sex or kiss again
you made me laugh without care
and strip bare on a dare
falling falling, falling there

thanks.

Two Haiku

Dimples abounded,
glittering eyes and teeth.
What's so damn funny?

Smiles shared in between
tingling thoughtlessness filling
this void of time and space.

A Perfectly Ripe Pear

After much internal debate, I place the perfectly ripe pear in my work bag with my notebooks, water bottle, and card-pass. I know it bruises easily, but I think it should be able to withstand the easy ride to work, even though it never does. It always ends up marred and hideous, practically pulverized, moistening the inside of my bag and its contents with pulp. But I just keep putting it in there, unprotected, out of spite. It should be able to survive something so benign. I throw the bag over my shoulder and head down the same path to the metro in my soft-brown Steve Madden heels.

Now I remember why I never wear these shoes. My right foot is slightly smaller than my left foot. So the right shoe slips off my heal just a millimeter more than my left, causing my knee-high, thin-wool sock to be pulled down, bit by bit, until its ripples of thin wool are nicely nestled between the ball of my foot and my heal, inside the shoe.

A man stops near me at the intersection, as I hoist my foot on the light pole, and coerce the stupid tan sock back up my right calf, finally giving in to whether it was worth pulling it back up, knowing it would just inch its way back down. The discomfort always triumphs. The glowing red hand blinks out as the white walker signals a go across the street. My man in the pinstriped suit and I set off. Ah, the awkward, side by side, walk with a stranger. It's disconcerting, because it is immediately intimate, no matter how askew you force your stare. Minutes pass, we're still in the same horizontal line. How is this possible? Here he is, in his big, flat, man-shoes, with legs three inches longer than mine, and he's walking at the exact same pace as me? He must be doing it on purpose. He must be wooed by the click, click, click of my sexy half-inchers.

I haven't worn these shoes in forever. I'm only wearing them now, because I saw a woman on the train yesterday wearing the same ones, and she seemed so womanly to me. I wondered why I didn't feel womanly, and I thought, "I should wear those shoes more." I'd been wearing my Dansco's nonstop, forsaking every pair of heels I'd collected over the past year. Right when I'd finished building my collection: brown heels, red heels, black heels, I decided it wasn't worth it, and made every outfit match, as best I could, my big, goofy clogs.

Heels make me feel so vulnerable to the elements: anything could send me tumbling over, tripping over myself, or wavering on my feet. Everyday I watch all the women avoiding the grates in the sidewalk, veering to the right, and I laugh: serves you right! Then I exaggeratedly stomp on each grate, to highlight their foolishness. Now I'm in line with that same rightward stream, blushing.

But maybe that's the point. The shoes make me more sensitive, and so, more womanly. The higher the heel, the more womanly the woman. But I like my clogs. Those clogs make me feel stable in the world: no pebble is gonna throw me out of step. I spent the past fifteen years teaching myself to be less sensitive, after endless teasing by my siblings, marking me the Crybaby. By the time I was a teenager, I'd become cool like all the skater kids, nothing could phase me.

But nobody takes home the cool girl: "one of the guys". I felt like I'd been utterly fooled when I watched each hot, skater guy throw his arm around some bimbo with bubbly tits and an obnoxious laugh. What about the hot chick who can do an Ollie off the half-pipe? No, no one marries the chick who drinks him under the table and shows him up in poker...

I arrive at work and transfer my bag's weight from my back to the desk: the moment of truth. Will the pear be whole, retaining its buoyant skin, or will it be ruined?