Russell Justwrite 2

Straight from the crooked lines I draw on pages when I don't have anything to say, I am still thinking about spiderwebs, how male spiders pluck their silken strands like a harp, like they're teenage boys whose upper lips quiver under the vague suggestion of a mustache, thumbing awkwardly at acoustic guitars the afternoons they taste their first cigarettes. I'm untouched by their efforts, watch spiders so tiny they are shadows of themselves gliding on cables from the towel rack in my bathroom. I wonder how long it's been since I've hung a towel there, how long it's been since I've laid naked in the sun and felt myself grow six more legs. The trees look taller today than they ever have before. Their roots whisper to the soles of my feet when I stand near enough. Their leaves have veins that pulse along with mine, look like your forearms when the light shines through. I think about the spider vein on my left thigh, how you pretend that I should hate it when really your fingertips are aching to introduce themselves. I see words forming behind your lips, then rolling back to fill the cavities in your molars. I see the jagged lines carving themselves into the corners of your mouth, thin strands I want to pluck, weave a song that will bring your voice forward.