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046He was different-- he wasn't an artist.046
It was wildly attractive.
Though his hands were clean of paint
(calloused by six strings)
he smelled of linseed oil.
What a pitiful guitarist he was.
Those pink pale hands,
straining to make chords meet.
There was meaning,
somewhere in those tendons.
Deep in that skinny white boy marrow.
by ~question-and-answer
045I'll let you keep the stars you stole-- but we're still much too young045
for the promises we made yesterday.
by ~question-and-answer
013His hair was staring at me,013
much like it had for two years,
from behind the pillow.
I believe it was trying to be sneaky.
He hid his face, except for the tip of his nose,
and I sat curled up behind my own pillow,
peering from over the seam watching him breathe.
I wanted to know what it was like inside and
I left feeling selfish.
by ~question-and-answer
012The low lying branches of the cypress trees dip into the murky water of the shallow Altamaha; their branches creating a playground beneath the surface for dark green plants that tangle in the twigs, and the small bugs that skirt along the water. Cicadas hummed along, occasionally a falsetto of chirping overcame the river—an almost deafening chorus. The small eddies swirl in the dirt brown water, revealing to clever old fishermen sandbars that hide beneath the surface. Sandbars created a nuisance, since they often shifted during floods and the tide. When the yellow sand would rise above the water, gators could be found sunning on them in012
by ~question-and-answer
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