a play in two acts

when southerners fall in love, it's always with an ideal. it's the heat. it makes everything shimmer, blurs the edges. you see horses where there are none, metal glinting in the sun. when southerners fall out of love, it's always with sarcasm, laying "pumpkins" and "sugarplums" like barbed wire under skin, dulled only by the hard liquors, and then only for a while.

me, i've always imagined on a donkey, in a skirt, kicking up dust clouds.

you can yell the love story from rooftops to strangers, but the bumps you keep to yourself. otherwise, the faces become masks and the eyes go away. the tongues make clucking noises, but even they are dry in their sympathies.

they make me tired in a tennessee williams way.

sorry, i get like this when i don't sleep a lot. and by that, i mean cryptic.