Her Name Is November and It’s 4:00 In the Morning

he’s nothing Brian Adams sang about.
She’s more Johnny Rotten’s kind of girl.
When she turns on her side,
canyons fall around her hip bone.
She’s got liquor lips, cigarette finger tips.
She says shhh, mourning dove
This don’t mean we’re in love
As if the teeth on this beast hadn’t sunk in enough.
But this half naked brawl, her back stuck to the wall
Means more than a religious epiphany.
And a mourning dove is more of a
glorified pigeon, isn’t he?
Still, the beast sleeps on your bed.
Warm skin visible through the sheer sheet
Covering a girl who was carved out of moon rocks.
She’s perfect. Her hair is corn silk.
Black makeup circles her hazel eyes like hungry sharks.
She’s a predator.
She rallies and unfurls her body like a roadmap.
Whispers something about pancakes or eggs
but you don’t hear it
Because you’re already thinking of taking a vacation.
Down south, maybe. Somewhere warm.

Reviews

[Megan]

I love how you make them so perfect with their imperfections. This is something I could read over and over again and never get tired of. I can picture this moment so clearly and feel the emotions so well. I like how it sounds like a story :) this was and absolutely great write and I will be reading more..thanks for posting this!