I Bloom for You Only

I know I write about girls being loved in the light but
In that moment
I was bonfire,
Jack o lantern
Harvest moon
Things you can only appreciate in the dark
when the leaves are falling
and the chill is
animated anticipation.

You were “Sunday Morning”
personified:
hands cupping my face
So gentle
So certain
So soft
Unwinding scarf
and searching fingers.

And I am all
puddle in a passenger seat,
morning glory opposite;
hitched breath
and tender touch.

Seeking exhalation—
Still.

Memory in
flickering glow;
unabashed,
but only in shadow.

Pillow Talk

My parents are talking in their bed
and I wonder about a time like this,

where the surface you come to rest
becomes the surface you come to confess
in between the arms of each other.

How a bed is a cage of secrets
and regrets;
a chest that holds moments of both
bliss and sadness.

How the quiet of the night
doesn’t still your tongue,

how one crawls day after day
back onto the mattress,
to curl up next to who they call
love.

Pillow Vision

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.

Seep

Lately, I’ve been walking through memory.
I have a boy,
who’s toying
with the idea of FaceTiming me.
I creep upstairs
lit by the glow of a phone screen,
and each shadow closes in.

I’m beginning to wonder
if I let the feel of you
seep into my skin.
I’m tip-toeing around rooms
and looking at spots on carpet
where your body once laid.

I’m letting the past get the best of me.

I’m thinking of different places on my couch
where I kissed him
or he held me
and you’re like a stain
that won’t get out of that damn carpet.

Eyes closed,
my chin on your chest,
you’ve been 22 for about 20 minutes
and I won’t let you leave.

It wouldn’t be the last time you stepped into my house,
but it’d be a memory where your girlfriend
and your mom weren’t the first to reach you—

and three years later,
I’m trying not to,
I’m telling myself I’m in mourning,
in healing,
waiting on a plan,
and not re-considering
the idea,
the promising heartbreak,
the never coming to fruition
possibility of
you.

Night Wonderings

I want someone to talk to.
To want to feel my pulse in their ears when my head hits the pillow.
To wake up buzzing with the thought of my skin as an echo.
I hope they dream of the smiles that they could carve on my face
like Michelangelo.

I hope they aren’t all like you;
that some find me good enough,
and others refuse to let go.

Twilight

Break over my body
like sunset;
I feel your teal
melting my yellow
and I am pushing down
morning star
while pulling
your hands across my horizon.

Meet my molten mouth
with your lunar lips
until I am seeing stars behind my eyes.
You have the universe in the palm of your hands
and you paint it over me in galaxies.

The only Milky Way
I’m swimming through
is between the river-like flow
of our two bodies
as my hips circle like Saturn’s rings
and you rove over my plains
like the freckles on my stomach
are the once existing stream
found on Mars.

I crave for you to make
me North Star:
highest point of reference
climax,
but instead I puddle into Northern Lights,
leading other lovers
toward celestial bodies
they will one day call
“home”.

You and I
are the love child
day and night
made.

Coffee Shop Thoughts

Come to me in the after light.
In the silence after the sun slinks
into sleep somewhere beyond the clouds.
I crave to hear the loud.

I want to know you in the pre glow.
When we are blanketed by darkness
in a bed of thieves who steal hearts and don’t want for money.
Kiss me like you need my company.

I want you like dawn wants to caress these grounds
and night wants to pillage our secrets.

I want you,
both lit 
and shadowed,
touched by morning,
bedded by dusk,
nothing more;
nothing less.

Night Owl

I am sitting in a pitch black room, but somehow it appears navy. My face is only lit up by the man-made light that comes from a fluorescent computer screen. Pandora is playing James Blake and I am happy.

I have just finished a Vinyasa set of my own making and somehow I am still breathing. Doped up on allergy medicine and my own worst enemy, midnight memories, I sit in silence and feel my body sigh with relief. I am happy.

I sit with my legs folded under me and my hair wrapped in a makeshift bun at the nape of my neck. My legs are bare and prickly; I’m in an old T from cheer and “yoga shorts” that have my ass hanging more than halfway out and I am happy.

I am sipping on ice water, feeling the dull throb at the base of my spine; I let my body unwind. I am happy.

Humidity

Stiff joints creak
like the familiarity of wooden swings,
blowing in the breeze
in summertime.

Each bruise you leave
upon my throat
reddens like roses before
purpling like violets,
like paint-streaked clouds
at sunset.

Kisses
remain like sugar upon my lips;
I squeezed a few lemons and mixed them
in water, but somehow the lemonade
wasn’t as sweet
on my tongue.

The air is muggy,
with our heady breathing.
But the covers were cool,
the night before, when our bodies were meeting.

And though I complain now,
Last night,
I didn’t mind your heat,
and you didn’t mind my moaning.

Rough Night (3-6-14)

I keep looking for guys

instead of looking for God, 

and that’s where I go wrong every time.

And I wish it wasn’t so,

but right now, all I crave are your arms.