chocolate

chocolate

seven days,

mouths moving constantly to kiss and to talk,

you are just so new to me.

I have never been with anyone so sweet,

so kind, so nice.

Someone who holds me tight,

who gives without being asked to,

who wants to meet my friends,

who wants to hold my hand at a party,

who wants to be mine,

who stares at me with chocolate eyes and asks if he can be mine

and if I could please be his, just for a little while.

he is mine and I am his but I’m not used to belonging to someone

it just feels so new.

steam for asher

steam for asher

Eery and unworthy.

fogging up my glasses,

you steam, obscuring my vision,

lust vibrating within us and between us.

I just wanted to love you,

just wanted to hold you,

but that steam wrapped itself around me,

and the colors were so blindingly glorious,

but we never reached that deep red rose,

I never flew above the desert, as portrayed by Salvador Dali.

We sparkled like the night sky, vast and temporary, unknown to our earthling eyes.

It wasn’t really me, we reached deep blue,

we reached lavender too.

You and your pearly white words the morning afterwards,

comparing me to a swan whose feathers shined with the morning dew,

clean and pure and nothing I really am but what you wanted me to be.

Me and my earthy brown response that afternoon, later;

comparing you to an oak tree, big and solid, and stretching around me, providing a home for me to nest in,

but this wasn’t you because you are not earthy nor a tree, but who I wanted you to be.

I am not like a swan, you are not like a tree, we were deluding ourselves, you and me.

I thought you were like water, pure and clean until you met me.

How wrong was I, but that doesn’t excuse you. You were wrong too.

Now I am alone during these cold autumn nights, no one to hold my hand as I walk through the fallen leaves.

You are still twisted up inside of me, but I save you until I am going to sleep, and I think about when it was you and me under my red sheets.

Maybe I am like a swan. Maybe to you I had grace and fidelity, and was as white as snow. Now I’m more like a crow to you.

Maybe you are like a tree. Your roots go down for miles, beyond just beneath you, but this makes you so inflexible still.

Maybe the comparisons fit.

I, as a bird, can fly away to those far away places, while you as a tree only provide me one place to nest. You will not move for me, because you can’t…

But you aren’t a tree, as I am not a bird, and we were not in love,

but maybe we could have been, but does it really matter now if I was a swan or a monkey or if you were a tree or a kite?

I just wanted to love you and prolong the fogging of my glasses so I could just continue to be so incandescently happy that I was content being compared with whatever he wanted me to be.

Your smile was the first thing I would see in the morning, your hands the first thing I touched. Your lips, the first thing I would know.

You don’t smile for me anymore, I haven’t touched you since that morning, and your lips are folded in a tight line.

We never reached deep red.

Running up that hill

Running up that hill

It’s you and me,

and we’re running around that hill, running through the reeds,

where the bayou turns to Spanish moss.

You don’t want to hurt me,

we make a deals about God.

It’s all wrong.

It’s you and me,

where the sun turns to a peach amongst rose petals when evening comes.

It’s you and me,

it’s all wrong,

If only we could stop.

We’re running up that road, running around the bend,

look down, and I’ll show you my catfish,

Lurking at the bottom,

making deals about God.

The sidewalk ends,

we’re rolling down that hill,

rolling into the concrete river, through the reeds and Spanish Moss.

We say hello to the catfish, we float amongst the sewage.

It’s you and me,

and you are frowning at me, and you don’t want to hurt me, but we’re rolling down that hill,

and we’re making deals about God, and you do.

Curse you for ruining Kate Bush for me.

(In case it wasn’t obvious, this was inspired by the song, Running up that Hill, by Kate Bush. I had a dream with it playing in the background, and this poem came from that dream)

Honey Part I

Honey Part I

Ambered honey crystallizes

with six sides in my mind.

Sticky sweet, dripping from

the rim slowly in large droplets.

Prisms fly as they catch

the light.

Sweet with a bite,

amber and gold,

no maple syrup here.

Your tongue in my mouth.

Your hands gripping mine

with a fierceness I cannot comprehend.

Breathless gasps, fogging my glasses with our excitement.

Deep-seated pleasure,

Cloying pressure.

Your head rests on my shoulder,

I can feel the sweat as you kiss my neck.

My hands on the wide expanse of your back.

Pentagons.

Honey crystallizes with six sides in my mind.

We are honey,

slowly slipping from the rim,

falling through the air,

catching the light as we fall.

You tend my figs so carefully,

keeper of my orchard, my vineyard.

I climb your trees, swing from your lovely limbs.

I pick your apples, and I eat them with honey.

Shh… It’s just a crush.

Shh… It’s just a crush.

Don’t worry about it,

You deserve an easy crush.

That’s what my friends say.

Why do I feel the need to whisper about him, only?

He is relegated to only whispers

living in shadows of my

conversation,

but haunts my dreams.

I start running through the

soul crushing scenarios,

of what could happen if I did say hello.

I bet he’s gay,

Or has a girlfriend,

or his profile photo is

out of date, ancient, not him,

and he’s twice my age.

It’s just a crush,

no harm in a crush, right?

Then why do they give it

such a violent name?

Because this man i’ve never met has the

power to crush me.

All for a harmless crush.

It’s time for Magic

It’s time for Magic

I had a eureka moment a night ago,

of course it’s at night when I was feeling low,

when a happy photo slid down my newsfeed

and, on it’s way, planting a introspective seed.

The photo was recent but it made me think back at loves before,

memories I kept locked because they make my soul sore.

I am young, but these thoughts make me feel ancient.

Looking back, the story I tell you has a blue tint.

My first love was Sean.

Older and wiser,

On his way out the door as I was just entering a world, fresh faced and giddy.

I put him on a pedestal,

I thought he was smart and strong and cool.

Every moment was filled with passion,

excitement, and bliss.

My glasses would fog when we kissed,

My palms would sweat every time we met.

It all tumbled down so fast,

and I cracked like a teacup,

dropped from his tray.

So when I saw a photo of him and his new girlfriend,

(who used to hate him),

despite my prior knowledge of their togetherness,

I felt the teacup crumble a little bit more.

Why do I care?

Why do I wish that he had stayed?

It was 3 years ago,

what’s wrong with me?

But can’t you see,

that the reason you’ve been puzzlingly unhappy with all men

since April 20th, 201o,

is that you never really got over him?

Oh crap.

After your breakup, you played it safe.

Half your heart put on reserve, just in case.

The long relationship afterwards

was safe in the worst way.

Oh you loved him, of course.

But your glasses never fogged,

heart never danced,

palms never got sweaty.

Maybe you weren’t ready?

The new guy was Grant.

Steady, calm, and sweet,

but there was no impromptu dates,

no big dramatic kisses,

no long stares,

and no sage advice.

You realize after it ends,

that there were few moments where you loved him in the same way.

Those moments were beautiful, and properly mourned a couple weeks ago.

But now, as I have recovered,

I realize that I haven’t truely been myself these past 2 and half years dating him.

He never laughed at my jokes like Sean did,

he thought my sense of humor was weird,

so I slowly stopped being funny.

He hated it when I was overdramatic or made a scene, so I started keeping things to myself.

He thought poetry was for pussies so I wouldn’t share it with him, and worst of all,

he didn’t believe in magic, so I couldn’t believe in it with him.

He wasn’t abusive or a jerk, but he changed my personality so slowly that I didn’t even realize until he was gone.

I miss the girl who made jokes to be funny, who didn’t care about where she was when she was yelling, who believed in magic.

I miss the passion, abandon, and love of the first guy,

but until now I only remembered crying for hours afterwards, the loss, the grief, and the harsh rejections.

I spent so much time hating Sean for our horrible breakup that I forgot why I loved it so much.

It’s time for me to be funny, sing in public, and be silly.

It’s time for me to believe in magic, dragons, and the ridiculous.

It’s time for me to be childish and to feel utter joy.

No more restrained smiles, no more slight hugs.

No more chaste kisses, only ones with tongue.

I have no lover now, and I won’t for awhile,

but the next one won’t be

so safe it’s suffocating

nor so fast it makes me breathless.

It’s time for magic.