You leave nothing but bees in my stomach,
but here’s the twist:
this time it doesn’t sting. .
They make honeycombs of my
veins
and house their queen
in the chambers of my heart.
Every time my skin breaks,
honey spills.
How wonderful it is;
how lovely to
know that even without you,
I am still
so sickeningly
sweet.
I want to be the smell
stuck in your hair.
Maybe that’s romantic somewhere.
Maybe all we are is a moment,
a night where someone’s eating fajitas right behind us
and my head smells like smoke and you
kiss the crown anyway.
Kind of like memory.
Wash it out the next day.
There’s a thrill still, though it’ll be gone in a month.
Do you remember their touch?
Does the thought of their hands on you still cause you to blush?
I picture the thought of future somebody,
the same way I picture future me:
From the back,
staring at
art,
a park,
lights hanging from trees
like technicolor fireflies in the dark,
me:
wrapped in some too big sweater,
you
with hands in pockets,
nose covered by scarf,
holding ourselves together,
but feeling larger than life.
Hearts like hearths
melting all the extra ice,
kindling blushes
and glowing eyes.
I picture future us
the same way I picture eternity:
everlasting;
yes, finally;
bright.
I want to know
What you love on your tongue
what you touch to feel alive
what scents
what sounds
what sights
do you thread through your veins
because each composes your pulse?
I want to know how you see it
The moment
have you ever pictured me?
what if
you’re creative—-
combines with my combustible
are you willing for this to be
abstract
Artistic tragedy?
I want to know
if you practiced my name—-
if the very thought causes your lips to frame it
The way I’ve whispered yours into my pillow at night
Hoping
Praying
Memorize
the shape of my cheek
against the pillow.
Fanatical? Yes.
But fantastical feeling
knowing someone
knows the curve of my face
against linen. Likes it.
I
have never known a love like that.
Press my cheek against the pillow —
diagonal,
try and dream
about a love like that.
What do you want more than ever?
To hold this moment
like a pair of heels
carried to the car
after a night of dancing. Unabashed.
Gingerly walking over asphalt and concrete
but away from reality
For just a few hours
More
Nights like these;
I want nights like these where I’m drunk
on happy, sweating in dark rooms with laser lights
coming from a DJ
who’s playing all the right songs I want to move to
I want nights where I feel free
where my hips are swaying even though I’m lonely
Where I’m out on the floor by myself
because I love the music and it loves me
What do you want more than ever?
To dance
until my feet hurt
and be okay that nobody wants to come to the floor
and join me.
The last poems
I wrote were all
free fall, no net.
All reaching for a mouth
to lean forth first,
coming up empty handed,
lack of caress.
I miss the way it was,
when my body was not a bargaining chip.
Where I didn’t treasure each smile
like a rare artifact.
Where these two things went together.
Where these two things were only parts of me,
not something that defined entirely.
I miss the poems about day dreams
and never happened fantasies,
and no hurt from a boy
that I never had to begin with.
I miss the days before I wrote about each line
on my body,
each pocked mark, bite of cellulite in skin,
didn’t compare myself to anyone because at least I was thin.
I miss that never embraced comfort ability.
I miss the days where I could be loved without flaws
brought to the surface.
Where I could take a compliment
and not remind people I wasn’t worth it.
I miss years past,
but not really.
I miss writing.
I miss poetry.
And the only thing stopping those two things
is me.
You swallow
and I hear the crack
–
of waves breaking against rocks,
of lightning splitting trees,
of all my resolve splintering into
a million
tiny
–
You swallow
and my mouth is dry
–
like sandstorm in Sahara,
like shelter in monsoon season,
like heat unfurling through
every limb,
every sinew,
every cell.
–
You swallow
and I am so, so thirsty.
–
You swallow
and I wish I was
tasting you.
I’m happy you’re happy.
like dots needing to be
reconnected.
And I sat and watched the conversations ripple
across the table like
to each set of lips a piece of yarn
was attached and I was caught
playing telephone,
alone.
It’s like,
I come to reconvene
and by that I mean watch.
I arrive at a table and wait
for his eyes to meet mine
or someone’s arms to enclose around my shoulders
from behind and I
look at these people I have gathered
together again
and I wonder why
I call them my friends when every time I leave the diner
I know I could go a few months or years without seeing them.
Maybe, maybe we’d feel closer then.
Writer.Reader.Thinker.Dreamer. 