Drive by Jessica Lauffer
The book you gave me
from your mother
smells like moth balls.
I keep smashing my thumbs
into the spell that’s been cast.
There’s a direct communication line
between our congruous hearts.
We keep busting everything up.
I wore a crushed velvet pink
one of those last times,
stared into a mirror wishing
I felt like I belonged to you.
We can’t get ice cream any more
even though I watched
you eat spoonfuls off my ass.
I’ve been learning that magic works
and that you are lost from me.
But I feel you
reaching into the dark,
bashfully groping me.
Like guilty adults we
drive hard into each other
on a balcony, bent over
to enjoy blackened cityscapes.
You ask me if I enjoy the view.
december 23rd, 2021Jessica Lauffer enjoys writing poetry as a masquerade. She has written under many pseudonyms and is inspired by gay nuns, solitude, bodies of water, and cult films.