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.

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“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.