Summer is the season for redheads.
July breathes freckles into the sky.
That is july burning bright red on the horizon gettting greener
I hope this blog explodes.
Explodes like summer on the skin of a ginger,
I am in love with those spots
and I am loving you every moment you accumulate more geography.
I like the distinctions
summer invites into your skin.
I like your east coast sweater
all marroon with the collar popped out.
I like you clean cut
and smoking a cigarette like a teenager.
I want to smoke with you.
Or maybe just stand next to your smoking mouth.
I like changing my mind
and smoking that lavender cigarette at 4 am.
I like breathing sage on your waterbed.
With skin so pale I could sometimes see your veins in your face
and around your round and translucent eyes.
Your were nowhere near ginger.
No need for the sun or summer in your skin.
Eyes softer than a dusky throated sky.
Pale and paling and railing against becoming more invisible all the time.
Outlandish leather posters and sex at your parent's house.
Once in that house and once on the hood of my car.
The blondness you give me is brittle
the way lightning touches the sand into glass.
I've begun to wonder if you have ANY scars at all.
Your hair is brushing ashy against the sky.
Wide open like the holes in your shoes
our eyes get bigger at every meeting
and NOTHING can escape our unquenchable bouts of whimsy.
I held you in that cold mouth of ocean
the sounds bouncing off our bodies
as I promised that thin stip of a body a little better warmth.
Full blonde breasts in the surf
behind that bikini
which I thought about so easily removing.
for a while
were off the menu.
the first one both blonde and ginger
Dreaming of being a redhead.
That dream swooped down,
only crawling up as you stooped all through winter.
Full of stoic amber shine.
You are like an insect in an amber glass eye.
Golden like summer would be if it lasted all year long.
We didn't last that long.
Enough for a season and then some.
It's always good to have some.
Long blonde strands always longer than mine
I remember that day I realized with great dismay,
that I would have to stop looking for gold strands between my bedclothes.
Found another Strand of a different type.
But he is not a blonde or a ginger.
He is mostly dark
and thoughful olive skin all over.
Big features hold to many feelings
all taut in a wraping,
bound up intentions are the best looking when tied down in his words.
was my first blond.
Whose Name I won't forget.
I make up trauma about his name.
Unsure of the actual transgression
I know his group of malicious friends used it against me.
Blond and blue in the face.
I though sweet sexless thoughts about him in my thirteen year-old mind.
wanted to touch his nealy invisible hairs just to see if they were real
and not just wisps in my imagination.
Eyes like water.
I think I was afraid that they would rush away at any moment.
I think that might be why I chase them
the blue eyed blond ones.
Everything about them is just so damned ephemeral
at any moment they might just rush away,
temperamental like a tide.