Love is a four-dimensional word

A dam broke under a clear surface in the eye:

          marbled like wagyu feasted on by debt collectors.

I tried  a mouthful of you and spat out freckles

          in the key of E major, brussels sprouts and chicken grease catapulted

across the dash onto my jacket  because the light yellowed

          faster than you  could swallow a hundred dollar bill into savings.

Water moon wanes a crescent atop the manhole, and I was     never    scared

                     until shrouded on my wrists were heather gray cotton sleeves, tattered enough to

          say it was mine         instead of yours   because it’s   ours,     what’s mine is

          tucked away within a crevice at the base of your neck, and Episcopalians’ biggest fear

          is an altar boy parading down a pew with coffee spilling over a paper cup,

                     so let’s open a café that only      sells aphrodisiacs.  

                     Matrimony is over-shaken.     I’d choose you anyway.

          Our fingers raw    from opening crème de violette,   aviation,

                  flying through         clouds diffusing into indigo night.

Olivia Olsen doesn’t think time exists. She is a senior corporate communication major with music business and writing & rhetoric minors, and is from Raleigh, North Carolina. Her works are inspired by loss, young adulthood, music, and her upbringing between the North and South.

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