Jenna Bush. Arbuckle Award. Clutch

Transcription

1 Jenna Bush Arbuckle Award Clutch Memorize the light blue of my eyes so you can still see it when I smile, cheeks lifting to cover my glossed irises, and I ll memorize the smooth chip in your lower bicuspid visible only when you scream at the TV as that damn rookie pitcher allows yet another homerun. Under the dull lights of that same stadium you at last reached out, scratching my palm with your calloused fingers, and swore you would cure my addictions to iceless cola and vinegar-dipper soft pretzels. Our moonless sky never warned me that those inclinations would be replaced by a tingling in my toes when I awake to the slight stench of your sleep sweat and the warmth that fills my stomach when I find your holed sock lying innocently in the bottom of my laundry basket.

2 2 Drowning in His Sheets His soft arms sneak around my body, spindly fingers trickling across my gossamer hip as my neck relaxes, hair sinking heavily into his limp pillow. Lungs fill with air ice cold toes stroke my Achilles at the depths of his bed. I reach back, tracing circles on his mind s posterior as quick, hot breath flows down my nape and goosebumps rise on my heart. Bare chests rise and fall through the tide, succumbing to the soft, cerulean sheets as one. Fading I ve been searching the deepest crevices of my waking mind, trying to conjure an image of you. And now here you are, projecting like a shoddy old film on the back

3 3 of my perpetually heavy eyelids. I see clearly your big, round eyes, reflecting the wide rays of the sun. Your thin lips, the corners turned slightly downward; I rest my lips on your ear, ticking your lobe with soft words to see that small smile open-mouthed with your tongue resting in the back of your throat. As your head tilts back, the wind throws your auburn hair into a frenzy. When you reach up to right this wrong with your long, slender fingers, the evening sun turns into morning, dimly lighting a room with two wobbly dressers, a box TV, and one bed I being the sole occupant. His Words Are Mine I knew it when we sat in the inviting shadows of the overfilled movie theatre, his caramel eyes drizzling sweet over my prophesied lips. His thumb running crooked circles on the back of my hand assured me that he would be my hero carrying my roped form from that empty, burning house. I knew it when our hearts melted into one, headlights projecting our soft silhouette

4 4 onto the faded white garage door. His cold fingertips traced forbidden words along my hairline and my pores opened to absorb each reticent letter before they dissolved into the cold night. I knew it because he wore my favorite shirt, an emerald in the driver s seat of his black Ford, light hums vibrating my chin as it rested on his shoulder. While we rode we compacted our universe between lanes of hard kisses and strong embraces as far as our whispers could reach. In the Park It s not until the sun first glows white in a blue, cloudless sky that I recall us holding hands, yours not quite reaching all the way around mine as you led my unblemished soul through the jagged, unbeaten path. Your sunglasses still rest on my dresser though I never wear them because the square, black frame is not becoming. Those slightly scratched lenses reflect your eyes: bright green and eager to meet again.

5 5 My heart concurred, desperately desiring nothing more than to hear your voice vibrating the air we would share over coffee. If it were not for her soft, delicate hand, just small enough lie comfortably in yours, perhaps I d be sharing this first summer day with you. Moist A drop of sweat trickled down his broad forehead, threatening to mingle with the rose blush tainting my face. Nails sunk deep into his back, I turned my head aside in a futile effort to escape the hot, wet splatter that landed with a plop! on my neck, leaving a salty trail as it travelled through the scarred valley of my exposed chest while he entered-exited-entered into my sore, exhausted being.

6 6 Vanilla Residue The thick, deafening silence is broken solely by the heavy thumpthump thumpthump of young, untried hearts pulses synchronized through the sweat of tightly clasped hands. Shifting eyes and tapping toes prepare for one soft, insignificant kiss to be shared over the console of a rusted red pick-up, parked in an empty church lot s shadows on a Saturday night. Two pairs of lips (one dry from numerous encounters with its own tongue the other caked in vanilla-flavored Chapstick) meet like new friends: hesitant for fear of leaving the wrong first impressions.