Brycical

Together, on a Bus
in West Virginia During a Frigid Winter


Last night’s passion is her hangover; she rests her head on my shoulder
and my beard brushes her dimples.
My arm wraps around her body
and she’s briefly awakened from her bliss by a kiss to her forehead.

And my beard brushes her dimples.
Outside, the wind’s frigid whispers numb the lonely uncovered ears.
And she’s briefly awakened from her bliss by a kiss to her forehead.
I imagine everyone outside is jealous of me, of us, our warmth.

Outside, the wind’s frigid whispers numb the lonely uncovered ears,
the blonde streaks in her hair remind me of a river reflecting the rising glow of the sun
I imagine everyone outside is jealous of me, of us, our warmth.
She looks up, grinning.  I’m glad you spent the night.

The blonde streaks in her hair remind me of a river reflecting the rising glow of the sun
and I can’t help but surrender to those eyes of stained glass brown.
She looks up, grinning.  I’m glad you spent the night.
My head rests gently on hers.

And I can’t help but surrender to those eyes of stained glass brown.
Last night’s passion is her hangover; she rests her head on my shoulder.
My head gently rests on hers
and my arm wraps around her body.




Brycical: I write and travel. Some people seem to enjoy my no-nonsense honesty. When I speak, I literally say whatever’s going through my mind. Poetry happens when I organize my thoughts. Some of my poetry can be found in Coe Review, Clockwise Cat and Mad Swirl.



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