the most accurate descriptions of how i feel about you
are disturbing at best
i want to crawl inside your skin
is the phrase that most often comes to mind.
never close enough, sticking skins pressed together
shins to calves chest to back
arms twisting and knotted around you
and i keep shifting in place because i don't have enough body to cover you with.
it's infrequently ****** but when it is i crave anatomy i lack,
and spit-slick tongue, rubbery silicon hardly begin to satisfy
my need to exist in the same space you occupy.
scientific law states that two objects cannot exist in the same space at the same time but you inspire a devotion to prove that wrong.
and those times you're above me limbs entangled unsure where one of us ends and the other begins
the litany of closer is silenced but the hunger for your flesh still craves,
not moving not giving enough for comfort or pleasure and the satisfaction never lasts.
in my love there is a constant undercurrent of unnerving devotion
passion and fury and not-yet violence streaked through with thrilling mania
*i'd **** for you*
another of those too-common phrases;
but i would.
there is a current of violence under my skin, my love,
and the idea of you being hurt brings to mind images of gore
and grit and rending of limbs from those who have harmed you.
i share my skin with a part-time psychopath
and you are the pivotal point, the focus
just tell me where to aim.
Mar 4, 2014
Mar 4, 2014 at 7:54 AM UTC
I made a mistake, love
I imagined what might have been.
Positive: I am crying.
I am telling you I need to see you. (I am crying, again, still.)
I am in your arms; and I do not know if I will ever stop
Long enough to explain that nothing is wrong
And I am happier than I ever knew possible.
I imagine you know
When you see, finally, how I cradle my still-flat stomach
Or the test left on the bathroom counter
Because you're crying too, now.
We made a mistake, love
Because now you too have the knowledge of never-to-be.
You've seen it now, my cooing over fingers and toes in miniature
And cradling that chubby little girl to my chest.
A certain wistfulness, you called it.
And all I know now that I didn't before
Is another future that we don't have
And another future that I will grieve.
Mar 4, 2014
Mar 4, 2014 at 6:39 AM UTC
relief, n;
1. a white car
stopping,
(the hasty introductions)
as you drove us home.
2. familiar conversation
in a language i speak,
a subject i am well-versed on.
3. finally being told
what
had
changed.
joy, n;
1. standing on the slick steps,
water spraying on our faces every few minutes:
we're disgusting, we said,
my single-self is gagging.
2. the woman at express
telling us
how cute we were
together.
3. together.
understanding, n;
1. your stiffening shoulders
when the song
began.
adj;
1. every time
i have cried in your arms.
2. i know now why you thought
i would be angry.
betrayal, n;
1. a year
is a long time
for
people
our
ages.
2. i would have married you.
3. i'm sorry.
4. i'm sorry.
5. i'm sorry.
6. hypothetically,
trust, n;
1. we agreed,
and we broke the agreement
together, happily.
2. i know now why you thought
i would be angry.
3. we will always fall into
this, darling.
Jan 15, 2014
Jan 15, 2014 at 9:48 AM UTC
the first time you told me you were in love with me,
it was in a letter (you
and you didn't dare even write the word. never were brave enough
to love me
openly.)
the first time you told me you were in love with me,
it was when you were leaving me for him. (i wasn't worth
the price;
you did a
cost-benefit analysis
you never left me, really. and cut your losses.)
he left and we returned to what we were before
him, as if we'd pressed pause
if i closed my eyes i could almost believe
it would be okay
we were still glowing-gold
and perfect.
but instead of the synchronicity,
some unnameable tension, the jarring sensation
that something in us was out of alignment. (i asked you to wait:
give me time,
some days more to play pretend.)
the first time you told me you weren't in love with me
was just after you told me you would have married me
would have run away with me
(as if i weren't the
teenager, here. as if it were my fault
for not being selfish
the heartbreak, the loss of ignorance and asking you to.)
was what brought us back in sync. you wrote once
about the end, the devastation that the city of us
was victim to. (we're finding that the damage is
less like an explosion
and more like an
earthquake: broken glass, aftershocks, and
the first time i told you i wasn't in love with you cracks in the
anymore, foundation)
i didn't know why, hadn't noticed the cracks in the pavement;
i had only just started to see
the shards of glass.
you kissed me ten days ago, and said you didn't know why
it didn't feel wrong, why it didn't feel like cheating.
it's starting over again, i told you. the glass is being swept up,
our pieces falling back into place. (it's the natural order for us;
this, darling, our effortless cohesion, will always
rebuild the city.)
Jan 15, 2014
Jan 15, 2014 at 12:35 AM UTC
When I called the visual appeal of your body topography, you laughed. You misunderstood.
The sharp angles, the planes, the curves and the hollows of your body, of your skin stretched thin over bone, these are what I find beautiful. This is the topography of you, the places I want to map with my lips and teeth. The familiar places, my home within a home, my love.
Your body is geometry, trigonometry, mathematics you hate almost as much as the way I can trace your every rib and vertebrae. Perspective translates your flaws into aesthetic beauty, but your perspective is your own and you will never see what I do. I will love you enough for the both of us, darling, love your flaws more than your perfection just to give you what you deserve.
Dec 4, 2013
Dec 4, 2013 at 10:23 AM UTC