The art of a kiss from a lover’s night painted a vignette for their memory’s delight. An intimate setting in ambient light, bodies lay with one on top of the other. Sultry emotion smoldered the air while desire murmured with half-lidded eyes.
Thick in a moon wine buzz, raced hearts slowed in hypnotic rhymes. Dreamy pararell faces, he brushed her back in circle formations. Led by the blue ice color of his eyes, opaque hues followed her mind.
Matched top to top and bottom to bottom lips met in the vanished line of the horizon.
A breath sweet to the taste, mouths warmed the moisture within. Tongue twirled in an intertwined continuum took Time to a heightened euphoric position. The lovers immersed in the couch felt the sensation of a weightless float. The prominent twirl continued to roll in hills of infinite pleasure.
Whispers subdued the blue ice color of his eyes. Wrapped arms in a tender embrace softened the erotic spell. She said she could kiss him forever. The portrait of a kiss, a synchronized creation infused to permanence.
For the lovers, this one kiss painted their perfect kiss.
I am forsaken for taking
your backbone arched
like the horizon writhing
in untamed ecstasy next to me
with only partial cherish.
Feelings not there,
must've been satisfied
or ignored for long enough.
The prominence of the presence
of your particles was overpowered
by a sun glare in the rear view
when I first met you
Governmental conspiracy books.
Just lying in the dark,
day after day,
Until your heart gave out.
I have documented proof in the form of bills and bank statements that this was what the last years of your life were like.
I now lie awake in the same room where I figure you must have spent all of your time,
looking at the ceiling,
wondering if it was the last thing you saw.
I don't have any photos of you,
I barely remember your face,
but everyone always told me that I looked just like a female-version of you.
I think I inherited more than just your face though,
and that is what has been keeping me from resting.
I have felt myself become increasingly anti-social, bitter, violent, cold, paranoid, critical, angry and reclusive over the years,
and I know that if I let myself continue to slip away,
I will end up just like you,
in this same room,
staring at the same ceiling,
with my face that looks just like yours,
with nothing to comfort me except for the fading memories of the love I like to think I once felt.
There were ten thousand books in this house the first time I came to see it,
piled high in every room,
ghosts in the ashes between every page.
but you were the one who taught me to take pride in the land I live on,
so I will turn it into something beautiful,
and I won't let this place be haunted anymore.
you were in my dream
confused, calling out for your own mother
though she was gone the year
I learned to walk
while you talked
your hair was not yet gray
yet you were more befuddled
than on your deathbed
in the poppy's soft
I could not trust
your words in the dream
why do these creamy visions
visit me, you so long
under the dirt?
what other words will come
when I am defenseless, in repose
wishing for more from you, perhaps
even though it is fiction
I can never
For some reason I can't stop pretending that I am alright.
I can't break the illusion that I am fine.
I think I am just scared that when I stop pretending it might never go away.
I am afraid it will get even more real.
But how then can I make you see that I am not okay when I don't dare to admitt.
I need help but don't dare to ask for it.
Why am I so scared of showing how I feel?
I wish I knew...
Je serai poète et toi, la poésie.
I will be the poet and you, the poetry.
But it is not the words
That I scribbled out in arduous hand,
The slopes of my letters,
That quite encompass
The slope of you leaning against
The pane of my window in the rains.
Nor is it the soft cursive
In which I gently wrote down
Your expression when a flake of snow
Soft and tender;
Rustling through the branches of fir
To land on your nose,
Ever so gently;
That can quite tell the world
What your clear laughter does
To an hour of gloom.
I knew then,
That my mind, with its fractured
Concepts disjoint syllables and tripping verse might not be capable
Of putting pen to paper
And recall your fiery eyes,
When they pierce the veil of
And beckon me to act my age,
And not a morbid royal spinster.
And I thought of how you knew
In far more precise details how
After a weary day, I flopped down
On to the couch in monotonous exhaustion
Wiping my brow, shaking off the
You knew, far better than me,
The blurred movements of my hands
As I traced words in the air.
I watched you watch me
Move and I watched as you noted
The crest of every breath I took.
And I thought.
Tu sera poète et moi, la poésie.
You will be the poet and I, the poetry.