ORANGE

our conversations lately feel like a living room without lamps
like we fell asleep with the oven on and the house burnt down
it is close to impossible to not get lost when traveling to your house
and i know it is the same for you

i am sorry that i gave my shoulder demon a soapbox to stand on
i apologize that the angel on yours seems to be in a coma
never mistake passive aggression for aggressive passion
i speak these words through my baby teeth
i wash my mouth out with soap in the mornings

i am sorry again but i don’t believe in boxing gloves
if you’re gonna hit me i want it bareknuckled
i want it in person and i want it right away
don’t bruise me with oranges

we are a contained nuclear explosion
we are an apocalypse in a snowglobe
no one would doubt Christmas is your favorite holiday
and mine is Halloween
i guess that’s why our orange words fall on white cold shoulders

i miss your vintage love
and your chicken noodle soup kitchen
but the string between our soup cans is broken
we gotta talk

COPYRIGHT BRICE MAIURRO 2015

Author: brice maiurro

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

1 thought on “ORANGE”

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