jawlines

her name was Jules-short-for-Julianne and she tasted of the grape gum that comes in packs of eight, the kind tucked away on the shelf at the Grocery & Gifts on 21st and Hawthorne,

and I didn’t know I was supposed to close my eyes.

she traced my spine with her teeth (I figure now she was trying to crack it open, let my marrow spill over her lips)

the stars leaning in when we kissed looked like rice, honest, not wishes or dreams or satellites,

two girls collided on a sidewalk, boots drenched in gasoline puddles that glistened scarlet aquamarine gold, trying to find something with their tongues

but we fooled nobody.