Rolling Pains

I’m running my fingers over my stomach:
a hill filled country,
a necessary plane.
And I notice the birth marks,
the little freckles given to me from both time
and sheer existence.
I think of how the sun will turn the peach fuzz
that forms a line to my sternum, golden,
I think of how it will disappear with the tan.
I think of how the sun will be the only thing
to kiss my stomach for the rest of this summer.
And yes,
that makes me sad.

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.

Dream-Made Islands

I dreamt that I
fell asleep in your
bloodstream.
Found my heart
washed up on the
shore of your palms.
Thought
“Maybe scars will be stars
and between their lines and
the compass of gravity
I’ll have no trouble finding
my way home.”

They say the moon pulls
the tides,
and oceans rock the restless.

Yet every morning,
I wake to the sun and a dry bed,
my head clouded with sand
and my ear pressed to the pillow,
waiting to hear the sound of rushing
pulses.

Watercolor

I am watching sun
slink behind clouds
that are full of thunder.
I am watching baby blue bleed
into black,
and bruises bloom
over instead of under.

And I want to tell you that
I remember.
That you were my sun and
there was a time when I wanted
our bodies to crash to roll
like thunder,
to shiver with electricity,
brains clouded and eyes shining
with lightning.

And I am watching storm
prepare to rain down
on man-made fortress.

And I am waiting
regardless of undress
to lay in your rain.

You Will Never See Her Wake

 

You
will never be the one
to kiss the sun
off her shoulder blades in the morning.

You
will not be the one
to trace the patterns
the lace drapes make along 
her bare back.

Your fingers
will never be able to
memorize the dips of the
blessed vertebrae in 
her spine.

You
will never be able to kiss
to taste her morning breath in your mouth,
as she rolls onto her side to greet you.

You 
will never get to wonder
what picture is playing
on the inside silver screen
of her eyelids.

Her sheets
will never be soiled
with your
scent.

 

100 Word Poem

*Another thing for Creative Writing II; Feedback appreciated*

If forest fires ran rampant over my skin,

Would you quell each one with your fingertips?

If I brought destruction in my wake,

Would you tell cities not to fear my flames,

And burn down blissfully into oblivion?

This is not light beneath my skin.

You confuse me for the sun,

But there is no horizon to which I’m sinking in.

I am well reminded

of my bitter imprints:

Blisters, peeling skin, and freckled flesh.

You will never be sun-kissed,

But rather sear under my very own fingertips.

If I ignite irrationally,

Will you still wrap your arms around me?