All posts tagged love


Published March 15, 2015 by April Fox

Give me something to look forward to, she said-

The crease of your palm as your hand curves around the back of my neck, or the stillness that crowds your words when you whisper something no one else can know

Let me be the one to taste the endorphins and whiskey in your voice

When you finally say good night. 

And she raised her face to his, supplicant and small

And in the light cast by his backward smile

She wrote their epilogue. 

Eleven twenty-three fourteen

Published November 23, 2014 by April Fox

West, and the light is brighter here
than ever before
even with the cold.

We joked once
about going to California
swimming in the ocean
where the sun is always shining
and the sky has never learned
to close its eyes.

Bones cracked beneath the weight of non-existence,
we knit them together in some kind of
voodoo magic
spent the night in a cheap hotel
brought home souvenirs:
a tacky mug from a roadside gift shop
a candle in a jar
a book about the Grateful Dead
the taste of fruit
and whiskey.

The woodstove makes a cry like something dying
something screaming
to be born
and outside the fourth floor window,
there’s a blue jay
fat and puffed with self-importance
singing lullabyes to his reflection
in the glass.

On Friendship and Cohabitation

Published November 10, 2014 by April Fox

“I’m not good at living with someone,”
she said
looking down at the floor.

“I know,” I said.
“I’m not either.

And I went home and waited
for the song of tires on gravel
folded myself into him,
a tiny slip
of paper
in his palm.


Published June 12, 2014 by April Fox

Yesterday, I came across another blog I’d started then abandoned. It’s only a couple years old, and I have no idea why I gave it up and started this one. They may even have overlapped, I’m not sure, I haven’t looked. Anyway, I thought I’d move some stuff over from there to here. Here’s the last entry from that blog, from January 2012.

Living with someone you love is hard. Living with someone you absolutely adore might be especially hard. In a bad relationship, you know what to expect. You can numb yourself, turn to apathy like liquor to drown the things that hurt. In a good relationship, you are forced, unexpected, to see the little bits of your love-and they’re there in all of us, turn off your romantic eyes and you’ll see it-that make him human.

Human-ness in someone you love can be hard to take sometimes.

There is this person out there, in here, wrapped in your blankets, cold feet pressed against your own, miles away sending digital hearts to a little glass screen, using your soap and your toothpaste and dirtying up your dishes and stopping for milk on the way home, and something about him is simply right.

Things are very rarely always right, all the time.

Accepting that tastes like aspartame.

It’s when you can take a breath after screaming rage, silent in your head, angry, furious that this perfect creature isn’t, and in that breath is the knowledge that yes-
this is perfect-that you know.

And fuck, I am not stuck here. I am not bound by faith or circumstance or some archaic rule book to settle into the space between your arms at night. Necessity is not the driving factor here, but choice. And in that first quivering breath after fear creeps in and tells you to run is the absolute truth: the worst of this is better than the best of anything else.

We are stitched together, patchwork hearts, magnets, telepathic, take your pick.

I could take your pieces
toss them blindly from the windows
mad and happy
littering the road
things I
shouldn’t really need

I lost my words.

Together they are something
I’d call magic
if I wasn’t such a
cynical old fuck

Together they are bound into this thing that I can
not define cannot
explain cannot
for a fraction of a second
to imagine life

Time Travel.

Published May 28, 2014 by April Fox

We made psychedelic candy
in my grandma’s muffin tins and I drank
chocolate-flavored liquor from a teacup
from a set I got for Christmas
from a friend that I lost somewhere
in the rubble of
the past
and I found
my fingers, lit
the buzz before the thunder

You took a picture of
the cat you rescued
lying next to me
arms paws crossed
in identical directions
stretched out feeling
the vibration of the
bass against my heart

The night is barking dogs and traveling
through time
I remembered this a
thousand years ago.



Published May 27, 2014 by April Fox

The faucet’s dripping again.
There’s glitter on my eyes and in
my hair
Four years and twenty days ago you dropped your
smile at my feet and left it there
for me to find,
your skin burned
holes into my life and I bled
ink into yours, marked
we shared a glass, tasted
where we were headed, breathed
the same air and it was
toxic to the world
and we spun hard, crept up on
the night and took it
by surprise
the rest of them knew
and we were blind


Solenopsis Invicta

Published April 18, 2014 by April Fox

I got bitten by a fire ant last weekend, for the first time in forever, and it reminded me of this tiny little thing I wrote nearly three years ago. It makes sense to me, anyway.

We lay tangled
each breath a taste of
like a wish
and in the cold we built forever
out of smoke and flame
and ash- there are things that we won’t know
until it’s over
and in the end
we may lie tangled
like a wish.

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