Since October…

This is how my heart breaks:nothing

goes your way.
There are tears

collecting in rivulets on my face

and soon I am outlined by a stream.

Doubt runs thick,

worry flows between.
I can’t help you,

I don’t know how to help you,
and I love you.
This is not a poem

where we end.

This is not a poem about anger,

or sex,

or us being more than friends
because in this moment even

“love”

can’t pull us through it
so I write to say I broke

and called out to God

and I know I’m not His favorite,

I know I’m short of the begotten,
but please help him,

help him where I cannot.
And even though nothing has gone your way,

even though you don’t believe

in what or to whom I pray,

it’s to the point where I love you,
but something greater than us

has got to fix this.

Gazing

We are sitting at a bar
(and aren’t we always, love?)
and I am leaning forward
with my tongue like a key
betwixt my lips
because I know by now
I’m unfound treasure
for you.

And I can tell by the way
you swallow,
by the hardness brandished
in those blue eyes
that reads like hunger
for me.

And I know it would be
so easy
to take you by the collar
and have our mouths meet
not so politely.
To smile against your shock,
to savor that one sweet moment of mesh
before you pull back with regret;

before I shrug and act
like you and what you made
me feel are ‘all too easy’
to forget.

And on the weekend,
in the dark of my living room
when his fingers know
the curves of my body
like braille,
I will pull away from his mouth
licking my lips
and laughing at his
glazed over eyes

because unlike you,
who’s always six bottles in,

with me straddling his lap with
my fingers in his hair
he smiles, lethargic,
and I know it’s me:
I’m the ‘thing’ that
intoxicates him.

And in the middle of a living room,
(my heart full with love)
the room erupts
and I am light
for him.

“Matter-Ing”

It always begins in amber,
the candles in the windows,
the streetlight near you exit off the highway
the way the light dances in your draft.

The thought of us:
subtle,
but glowing like a porch light.

I find myself writing love letters to your hands,
flowery apologies tripping over perfumed saturated stationary
words smearing like “I’m sor—
Your –nds never got to kn– me”

I close my eyes
and dream of your fingers
making pirouettes on my skin.
The moonlight hits your nails
in the valleys of my hips and we are
fireflied bodies:
flickering,
glowing.

You were the poem I had to walk away from;
if I looked at you too long
I began to want the taste of marble in my mouth.
I thought of us tangled together in so many ways, gargoyles would blush.

In one scenario you’d actually spell my name
right.
In another, you’d come to my house, sober,
and stay the night.

And I keep writing you these
drawn out pieces,
keep calling them poetry,
because some nights, our eyes would lock and I was hoping
you took the time to memorize my face.
I was hoping you realize what a damn fool you were,
all those times you broke your gaze.
I was hoping I’m not just another flavor, a particular taste;
another passenger in your car,
listening to “Cigarettes and Saints.”

And if I only matter in bored daydreams,
if I’m worthy to pop up, years later, in your psyche:
I hope you’ll search for my words to hold close, when you can’t find me.
This ink is the Amber, babe,
and I am nothing more than fossil of your past,
a glowing, fervid memory.

A Saturday in Philly

Today
I feel like writing again
because the train was swaying
like the branches of a dogwood
come spring.
& instead of butterflies
petals fell each time my hip
hit yours.

I want to talk about flushed cheeks
& plush felt & gripping your sleeve
& how we became one with the city’s
chilly streets & I’m not ready
for it to be warmer just yet
if winter means I get to hold
you closer.

Today
you lost me on purpose
between murals of war
and the garb of the Xi Xia dynasty.
Moments later you would grab me from behind
& have my body sink like a sigh
against yours.

I want to remember the way
you smiled at the swords
& how you kept puckering your lips
to kiss me.
We strolled toward lunch
& you told me how we could come back in spring.
& now I’m ready for the chill to cease
and flowers to creep
up from the frost,
if it means I’ll be riding the train
with my head on your shoulder
& the warmth breaking through
is a little bit closer.

Another Round for 4

We are ostracized by a table
half the size of the dining room
and I am looking at you
and you are laughing.

And I am watching you
and you don’t look at me;

and this is why I don’t believe you
when you say I’m ‘pretty’,
when you like ‘my personality’.

I see the way you’re smiling,
the way your eyes are glinting,
and maybe you’ve finally fooled me.

But in those moment, I swear
you look, you seem
genuinely happy.

And maybe that lessens the blow
of the lie:
that I know you never watch me
when I’m having a good time.

So the next time we are at a table
and this time, I’m at your side,
I’ll still cherish that smile,

But won’t confuse it for your validity
of my ‘pretty’
or ‘personality’.
No, without you,
without it, I’m still me,
and regardless,
I’ve been doing just fine.

Road Trip Poems: Holly Hill, SC

He loved me when I was a warrior,
whipping off the helmet to expose the mane,
kissing his lips just so he could lick away ash
as I peeled off the armor.

He loved me when I was a coward
and I didn’t unlock the roar in my chest.
When I held my body like a cupboard and
he kept picking at the locks,
if only so I could take a look inside and see.

He loved me when I was raving,
when he drove me mad but still brought me
to the keys, still kept the ink from fully drying.
Called me words like “pretty” and “amazing”
and was gracious enough to meet me in a time
where I was rediscovering the hope chest in my stomach that had stashed away my “worthy”,
with instructions to “only use when ready”.

He loved me
before I put him in these poems
and chose to write about others instead.
He loved me when I confused touch for emotion
and leaving for reciprocation.

He loved me—
and waited until I swore off fireworks,
to come back into my life
and write about how I see the night
in blazing color,
how life is now a never ending metaphor
for explosions
and awe-slacked jaws if only you let those
who knew your heart when you were closed off
in.

Hello All

I’m writing on a new WordPress format and that alone tells you how long it has been since I’ve been on this site.

The last poem I posted, “When She Passes By”, was recently published in my university’s literary magazine, marking the fifth publication I’ve been published in.

However, as my writing has changed, so have I and I feel as if I need to come back, pull myself away from that writing community and begin writing again soley for the purpose of my passion for it.

This is where WordPress becomes involved.
I wrote on this site as catharsis, as a journal of sorts, and because of the heartbreak I was going through at the time, I published at least a “poem” a day.
That was two years ago itself. My life and my writing style have both changed for the good and the better. One being that I’m in a new relationship which is changing my view of things and the second being, I want to post on here again.

Yes, I’m still active on my tumblr (spokeninkwells.tumblr.com) and I welcome anyone who reads this blog to check that out. I am thankful I created that, but as time goes on, it has been writing something to get noticed, for the likes, to make others happy and not myself.

The core of this blog was to get my writing out there.
In doing so, I actually had the courage to submit pieces and to be published (within and outside of my school). As the New Year approaches, I want to get back to the roots of doing what I love.

I want to get back to story-telling.
So hello again, old friend.
I’ve missed you.