Wait for someone who bumps mouths clumsily with yours cos they’re too busy smiling to kiss you properly. Yeah. Wait for that.
Here’s to the security guards who maybe had a degree in another land. Here’s to the manicurist who had to leave her family to come here, painting the nails, scrubbing the feet of strangers. Here’s to the janitors who don’t even fucking understand English yet work hard despite it all. Here’s to the fast food workers who work hard to see their family smile. Here’s to the laundry man at the Marriott who told me with the sparkle in his eyes how he was an engineer in Peru. Here’s to the bus driver, the Turkish Sufi who almost danced when I quoted Rumi. Here’s to the harvesters who live in fear of being deported for coming here to open the road for their future generation. Here’s to the taxi drivers from Nigeria, Ghana, Egypt and India who gossip amongst themselves. Here is to them waking up at 4am, calling home to hear the voices of their loved ones. Here is to their children, to the children who despite it all become artists, writers, teachers, doctors, lawyers, activists and rebels. Here’s to Western Union and Money Gram. For never forgetting home. Here’s to their children who carry the heartbeats of their motherland and even in sleep, speak with pride about their fathers. Keep on.
A person who is nice to you, but rude to the waiter, is not a nice person.
i want easy sundays with the lights turned off
until noon. i want “can you throw out the trash,
my body aches and i feel the rain filling the hollows of my bones today”
i want rushed mondays and our hearts put in
an electrical socket and strung up around our house
like fairy lights at christmas. i want fingertips on
the strip of clothing that covers my shoulders when it’s
hot enough to sleep in a tank top and shorts. i want
humid mornings, our hair a cloud we have yet to dream on.
i want watching the 11 o’clock news while you fall asleep
on my chest and i change the channel because
i can’t hear about people hurting anymore. i want “i’m finally home”
mumbled in my neck if i get there later than you.
i want parts of countries and passports lined up on shelves and
i want to feel the world in our house and home in your chest.
i want fingers around my curls when i’m too tired to cook.
i want autumn dates and wet leaves stuck to our boots
as we rush inside to feel each others summer warmth again.
i want wednesday fights and friday sighs and “do you still love me”
to be replied with arms as tangled as our knotted hair.
i want warm oceans after a long winter, i want knowing that
if i can’t save a life today, i have warmed yours.
and sometimes that’s enough. and i am enough for you.
i want saturday grocery runs and markets and night drives
to ease the ache and, God, i want laugh lines from you.
i want youth to be erased off my face with the scar of you
heavy in my skin. i want your open mouthed naps on my shoulder.
i want moans as loud as the police cars that drive round the city at 1am. i want family visits across birthlands and fourth of july cookouts
and i want to remember how cold parts of me were before
i memorized the warmth of your hands.
i want home with you. want ache and sorrow and comfort
and, honestly, i want a life with you.
Sometimes I wish I was 29 with my life figured out & sometimes I wish I was 5 with my whole life ahead of me and not a care in the world
pretty girls with a messy bun and baggy shirts look hot as fuck but when i do it it’s like i’ve been doing drugs for 5 days straight