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)



scream at me,

say something.

your silence is much more


no apologies from this one.

no soft words for the things he has done.

no empathy,

marred by our past,

he is no longer lovely.

pale as a ghost,

thin as a skeleton,

he always seems to be withering

away, slowly.

why must I torture myself with these silly boys,
who only tease and twitch.

he makes me want to scream.

no explanation,

no change.

I can feel my poorly used time tick away,

arguing with him.

no apologies.