one of these days
i will stop falling in love
with angel-headed boys
residing entire oceans
and plateaus away from me
the ways that their honeysuckle words
drip from their lips like honey
only to cover me
consume me
drown me
i'll cease thinking about how golden hair
would feel between the tips of my fingers
how their voice would sing
and reverberate within the hollow prison
of my rib cage
reciting rimbaud
rilke
camus
i will stop being tripped
up by the unyielding curve of pale
cupid-bow lips and lithe
long fingertips
tracing collars
shoulderblades
eyelids
continuously rendering me
hopeful
hoping
helpless
Feb 27, 2015
Feb 27, 2015 at 1:15 PM UTC
the ways that the candlelight
would illuminate the rises of your cheeks --
soft, sullen, sunken,
stretched, silhouetted.
the ways that my fingertips
would trace the point of your nose,
the fluttering frames of your eyelashes,
the ever-running ridges of your spine.
how you would speak to me
about far-off lands, gods and Greeks --
singing, sighing, searching,
sleeplessly, sightlessly.
the ways that your nails
would ebb and flow over the distant
distinct disconnected dashes of those
that dared to walk before those like us.
meager.
minuscule.
misplaced.
Feb 27, 2015
Feb 27, 2015 at 12:08 AM UTC