Star-Gazing

Tell me what the hood of your truck feels like.
I think i want to melt into warm metal.
I think I want to look at the stars so much
that my love for constellations
causes them to tremble.
I think I want the sky to fall on me.

Tell me that that is a kind of love.

See us sitting in a field,
flannel blanket amidst wild flowers.
You murmur about life’s imperfections and I laugh a garden.
We entwine under an indigo sky
and there are vines connecting with pinpoints of life.
I think I want to root into earth.
I think I want the soil to take our fingerprints
twist our DNA
until we are nothing more than dandelion fluff
and children are wishing on the fantasy of us.

Tell me that that is a sign of blooming.

Tell me we can be something
under a dark sky
amidst swaying stems.
Tell me that summer is more than just “I think”
and “are wishing”.
Show me more than
“kinds” and “signs.”

Promise me
that we, too, can be wonderful.

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Stay, just a little bit longer.

It is 12:07AM and I am
listening to Dion’s cover
of “Dream Lover” and
writing about graveyards.

Tell me in the future,
when I rake my fingers through my bangs,
have the pen behind my ear
and the desk light focused on the manuscript,
you’ll join me in the study,

Tell me
you’ll sing
“I want a dream lover,
so I don’t have to dream alone.”

Tell me
you’ll come up behind me,
kiss my head
and then retreat to the couch
that sits in my secluded space.

That you won’t leave
when the well is running low.
That you will stay when the ink
on the quill has dried.

Promise me
that you’ll stay
even if the writing’s dark,
even if Johnny Mathis fills the space
meant for shadows.

Promise me
you’ll stay when the ghost take over the pages
and the heads roll between the lines.

Love me
because even though I write death scenes
on nights like these,
when the music is happy
and my fingers are crying,

I’m a simple girl
who lives for fairytales
and wants her own happy ending.

Afterglow

I want a love
that feels like being sated;
where I am warm and sleepy happy,
but don’t need the sweet ache.

I curl myself into a comma
at night and pretend the covers
that cocoon me are instead
somebody holding me tight.

Tonight
my neck aches
and I miss the way fingers
used to massage me
in places I never knew were sore,
in places I’d never been
worshipped before

So give me a new one:
I want a love
that feels like the afterglow,
minus the hands.
A love I can sink into
soft and sure,

a love where physical
isn’t a necessity,
but a neck rub
will give me just as much
pleasure.

When the “Best” Comes Pt. 1

It will be something simple like:
we will dance
in the kitchen,
and I’ll be cooking something edible.
And you will hold me from behind
still swaying to the music playing off
of whatever medium it comes through.
Our shoes will be kicked off
and the table will be set
and there will be a vase full of
lily of the valleys or hydrangeas
or peonies
and from the window,
light will stream in.
I will sit across from you
in our dining room,
we will join hands and
thank God for the food,
for this life,
for everything that aligned
just the way He wanted it, too.

Dear Future Love,

You have
five o’clock shadow
like sunset on your jawline,
like constellations peppering your chin in moonlight,
like letting the morning kiss your skin
and hairs stand on end
just so when your face brushes mine
it burns in a way
that I grow to like.

Because it’s not a forest fire kind of love,
it’s something subtle
and natural
like waking up to a new start,
a way to change yourself between
cleanliness
and grit.
Like we may never be perfect,
but our bed head and morning breath
is entirely worth it.

And God knows,
the last thing we need is
another love poem,
but let me say,
because of you
and what you will show me,
this love will be,
this world is
a more beautiful place.

10-23-2016

My mother stresses
effort when it comes to
relationships, where
my father
stresses happiness.

Sometimes I wonder
if this is out of practicality or
lack-luster romance;
and, to be a pessimist,
I sometimes question
who fell out of love,
first.

But, I want to
contest this, say instead
they fell into us,
chose family over
lust; saw
the whole picture
of 1 + 1
equals infinite possibilities,
they became “we”,
and together,
in one room,
watch a video of their wedding
day, watch them kiss
and pull back with
smiles on their faces.

I know
they weren’t settling.

When they ask
each other what was
on their minds that day,
they can’t recall with certain clarity.
But when they stress
what I should do with boys and broken hearts,
it’s not out of complacency,
or lack of fuss,
but the fact that they only want
the very best for me.

Fair Exchange 

A boy
I have not spoken to
in three years
apologizes;
pulls me aside to tell me
I deserve better.

My sister calls this
an act of God,
that sometimes someone has to speak
the truth because I know it,
but don’t believe it myself.
But this time,
I agree with her.

Think it’s funny
how someone who used to beg me
for things below the belt,
doesn’t know how he’s interceding
for the Holiest of holies.

Want to tell him,
I see it, too,
how God’s purposely
protecting me.

Want to apologize
for clearing out my backseat.

Want to cry out
the cliched “hallelujah”;
shed tears on the drive home,
and thank Him for his mercy.

Praise Him
that it’s been over a month
and these lips have been
consistently denied the opportunity
to learn the contours of
another no-good-for-me
some body.