Coffee and Kerosene
Coffee And Kerosene
J: Gray hair at eighteen,
dark circles like caffeine-
fueled tired demeanors,
in need of a healer.
M: Years past the teens
in my mind cooks things obscene
such as hip-hop and top-notch
jeans that show off my figurine
and mysterious sunscreen
from someone I shouldn’t be seeing.
But my skin is still peeling
and my hands shake from the coffee beans,
will twenty five be much better,
or was it just fueled from fair weather,
a too-wooly sweater?
J: Like a movie scene,
she dances, hair like flaming kerosene.
Time flies by like a limousine,
crushing past dreams
and the wings of peregrines
among other things,
mainly things that used to fly-
but even they laugh when I walk by.
M: She has locks of brown
laced with gray and the fluff from better days,
and when she lets down her hair,
it litters the ground,
and its scent fills the air.
It smells like lavender and coffee,
and maybe something else that’s green,
a rainforest unleashed
in a room that reeks
of nightmares and weakness.
J: I lent her my sunscreen,
and she blows a pink bubble
of cotton candy dreams
and the promise of trouble.
The yelling of brothers
is a reminder that there’s others,
as well as anger of mothers
striking backs like prickly-finned puffers.
The beach has a cafe with a fireplace
where we can watch the rat race.
so come back to my side, and give the little and tired me grace-
don’t float away like a planet in space
packed inside a briefcase.
The future holds more than gray hair
and frappuccinos in the air.
It smells of fire, scared and wary,
and even your lover’s skin is temporary.