02.15

02.15

(puppy love.)

i remember standing beside you at the edge of the world
hand in hand you turned to me and said we should jump
i said i’m not one for suicide and you said it’s not suicide
it’s romantic.

you thought there was nothing more romantic than two lovers
choosing when and where and why and how they want to die

i was never afraid of heights nor commitment
but looking down on the jagged rocks below
the bubbling water crashing and the face of death
i realized in that moment i was afraid of both

and to think this was what i loved most about you
the way you dragged me through chaos
like a hand pulling me through a packed concert
to the front of the stage
where the music was so loud our ears bled
and the lights were so bright we went blind
but we were content to feel the vibrations
and our hands touching the feet of gods
you took your shirt off and threw it at them
standing there in your leopard-print bra i remembered
that you were never one to take anything seriously
your best and worst quality

one of those times you pulled too hard
and my arm came out of its socket
you dragged it around for hours
before you thought to look behind you
to see i was gone and i wasn’t just gone
i was walking in the opposite direction

it’s not addiction
how do you explain it?
you do something
and you do it
and you keep doing it
until it stops being fun
but with addiction you escape
with this
i just walked away
there were no withdrawal symptoms
like a cold haze
like that scene in Fargo
where everything is just white

i erased it all
the scratches on my back healed
i was no martyr
and you were no angel
we were just young and reckless
and in love
stupid love
puppy love
the kind that needs constant attention
and pisses on the floor when you’re not paying attention
and we left the door open
maybe intentionally
and it ran away

surprise, surprise

COPYRIGHT BRICE MAIURRO 2013

READ 02.16, THE NEXT ENTRY IN THE 02.2013 PROJECT

02.2013 is a twenty-eight day project chronicling my february of 2013 through poetry. to read the entries from the beginning CLICK HERE

Author: brice maiurro

Denver poet. Author of Stupid Flowers, out now through Punch Drunk Press.

12 thoughts on “02.15”

  1. Do you write with the same ‘voice’ dictating? Or does it differ depending on the subject? The variety of styles and moods is wonderful, as is the meat of the content. ( and do you worry about making the day’s words, or do they drop out complete, warm, round and egg-like?)

    1. I have a lot of voices. The two that seem to pop up the most are my ADD ranting and my kind of Bukowski imitation. That being said I TRY to do the voice that the poem calls for. Years ago I decided I wanted my poems to be like the White Album, where each poem takes you somewhere else. I think a lot of people are afraid of experimenting and I think that’s the best part of poetry writing. As far as the eggs I lay, they come out warm, definitely. I pretty much type the poem on WordPress then hit submit.

      1. Yep, I didn’t mean the conscious attempt to imitate, but the way the words, of themselves, flow out. I don’t know exactly how many inhabit me, but there seem to be times when a certain vocabulary and lilt occurs, that is replaced by another at another time. I know some prefer to squeeze and worry their words out, but, like you, I tend to wait til they emerge under their own steam..

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