wet and cold

wet and cold

it’s raining outside and

the ground is hot

but the air is cold.

he didn’t want to see me anymore,

“this has been fun

but not what I was looking for,”

he said.

that was a week ago,

when the ground was cold and the air was colder

but the world was without water,

so no frozen fragments fell.

I guess he did not enjoy the lemon drops,

or seeing me naked and bear.

the condom broke, he pulled the ripcord.

It’s raining outside,

I’m cold but it’s warm inside.

It is bright and warm and welcoming inside,

don’t worry I am fine.

new suit

new suit

when I look at you and see you staring back at me

all I can feel is this annoying little tickle

of my brain telling me not to hold your stare.

i own a suit now

so different from the future i imagined myself having

yet it feels so right.

now it’s time for me to move on to bigger bests.

if i was smart i wouldn’t look at you and want you so clearly.

because i shouldn’t want you since i only met you 3 days ago and i just moved here and we don’t have any classes together and we have only talked twice and i don’t know you and i don’t know this campus and i don’t know my friends yet and i don’t know you and i don’t know me yet really either.

i own a suit now.

it’s black and matches my skirt.

i think you’ll suit me.

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.

winter to spring

winter to spring

My breath clouds in front of me,

the cold invades my sweater.

But despite the cold that is conquering,

I can feel myself warming,

the ice of my apathy breaking,

my hopes melting.

Frozen hopes and bait and switch,

men toying me for their egos,

(I suppose,

It’s not like they told me so.)

Spring is coming.

But am I blooming?

Pollination is intimidating.

Will you melt me,

or will I continue to be a lovely frozen statue,

no heart, no poetry, no feelings.

wishful think [part one of many]

wishful think [part one of many]

once again,

man in my bed last night.

but unlike before

in every other way,

Including the man himself.

So why am I writing a poem about him?

Maybe it’s because I wish this poem was about

doing the dangerous dance?

This man just sleeps in my bed,

eyes closed, breathing slow,

laying beside me.

Our feet are tangled,

but that’s the only thing.

Warm hugs,

movie marathons with friends,

and a warm body in my bed.

My, oh my,

How different was last night.

Yet,

I find myself wishing

that I was writing about waking up,

awkward smiles,

and warm hands caressing my tense shoulder blades.

But maybe in time,

I will.