Love is not like anything, of course,
but sometimes I think that my love must be like the sea,
for so much of him I must swim to get to,
and so much of him, like the sea, lurks menacingly beneath the surface, dark and deep and dangerous.
All his hidden women crouch beneath his warm skin
and when I touch him, they come up to the surface to greet me;
I picture their long hair wrapping itself around my neck,
their beautiful nails digging into the vulnerable skin of my wrists,
and suddenly I am filled with the knowledge of him with them,
his hands on the crook of their being,
his lips grazing the naked skin of their backsides.
The thought makes me shiver, and when I hear his voice,
genuine and loving-- "what's the matter?"--
I want to cry almost as much as I want to keep on kissing him.
Love is like what? Love is not like anything,
and especially not my love and I's.
Loving him could be like drowning or suffocating if it did not feel like breathing too,
Or perhaps, more generally, like dying a slow and painful death, if only I had ever felt anything so much like rebirth.
Jul 25, 2016
Jul 25, 2016 at 3:30 AM UTC
Do you remember the last night?
Me, standing helpless in my doorway,
hands aching to reach out, and you--
figure retreating, head hanging down.
Some nights I thought our passion
would break our bodies apart.
Other nights I thought your indecision would.
Mar 21, 2015
Mar 21, 2015 at 11:28 PM UTC
one day we will walk to the other side of principle
and our gold intentions will become pure acts,
the burning footprints we left fading behind us.
one day we will hike to the peak of almosts
and we will kiss the skin of our souls' lining soft;
we will make the yearning of lovers light.
one day we will rest our weary limbs at the top of the world
and love as far as our eyes can see--
you will love, and I will love, and we will be free.
Feb 25, 2015
Feb 25, 2015 at 2:20 PM UTC
Sometimes it does not hurt to look at you;
sometimes I feel light again when we touch, like you have never hurt me, like our hearts are again mirrors for the other,
like you're looking at me again on a dark night in my car,
kissing my knuckles and my forehead and promising me you'll make it all okay.
But, God, sometimes--
Sometimes the ghost of your hands on me weighs me down so much that I can't move.
Sometimes I look at you and I am being left all over again.
Sometimes I look at you and your heart is so close to being in my hands and then you rip it out of reach again and take mine with it.
Sometimes you are breaking all your promises again.
Sometimes I look at you and I become a skeleton.
Feb 21, 2015
Feb 21, 2015 at 4:56 PM UTC
More than anything, I want to say: “Come to me, and I will kiss the fragile skin of your eyelids, and I will see gold in the brown pools of your eyes, and I will touch the skin of you soft, and I will kiss you all over. I will make a home for my lips of you.
Come to me, and let us be warmth; we don’t have to be cold anymore. Come to me, and I’ll light a warm fire under your skin, and we can be happy.
Come to me. Crash into me; fall, fall, do not be scared. You are safe. You are so safe. Let me run my lips over the fresh white skin of your scars. Let me be a dose of healing. Let me help you be happy. Let me. Let me. Let me.”
Jan 31, 2015
Jan 31, 2015 at 12:07 PM UTC
In you I speak a million unspeakable tongues;
like honey I let a language of love pour off the cliff of my top lip,
flow into the basin of your cupid's bow as we kiss.
There in that crevice is where you forcibly store the past of us;
there is no speaking anymore, we do not converse.
There is only the pointing of the blade inward
and the blood you let pool into your eyes when you look at me.
Jan 30, 2015
Jan 30, 2015 at 11:12 PM UTC
A professor asked me today: "What would you do if there were no boundaries?"
I'm sure she wanted me to say "travel the world" or "pursue my passion"
but all I could think about was reaching across the invisible barrier between us,
effortlessly sticking my hand through that grand fortress of brick,
and guiding your soft, tired head to the haven of my chest;
feeling your hair on my lips and letting the sweet salt of you pour into my skin.
Jan 26, 2015
Jan 26, 2015 at 7:02 PM UTC
You left in me the vacancy of almosts,
a house I created in my heart that was never lived in;
now the wallpaper peels and the floorboards creak
with the weight your feet never placed on them
and I sit alone on the roof, too scared to go in,
staring up at the night sky, looking at the moon,
thinking about the constellations we formed when we touched--
how you dipped my neck back, pressed your lips to me,
grazed at my veins with your teeth,
left bruises but never quite let me bleed.
A week ago I was in your arms, trying to let my guard down.
I sit alone now-- too scared to go in, too scared to try again.
Jan 25, 2015
Jan 25, 2015 at 8:25 PM UTC
You kiss me on a Saturday night in my car.
You tell me you were never in love with her
and I breathe forgiveness from my lips like the greatest relief in the world.
You hold me on a Sunday night in my room
and you trace the outline of my ribs with a palm
that's switched from harnessing claws to soft fingers back to claws
so many times that I've lost count now.
I push back your hair and map your face out with my fingertips,
trying to memorize the warm skin stretched out over your bones
and trying to comprehend how I could begin to place my hand
on your tired soul-- bring light out of the depths of you and make it rise to the surface with my touch.
When you ask if we can stay like this, wrapped up in each other, forever, my mind races,
and I pray to a God that I don't believe in-- plea that He will let me stay in this moment,
before you run back to her,
before your words crawl back into your throat to collect dust,
before you grow spikes like spores under your warm skin,
and before I open up my arms and let you push them into my vulnerable body with a steel face and tears running down my cheeks.
We see a movie on a Monday afternoon.
The darkness of the movie theater heightens our senses,
and I trace idle circles on your skin,
feel your lips on my cheek and on my chin.
As you're about to go home, we can't seem to stop hugging,
and I'm kissing you, kissing you, aching for the breath to leave me
because something in me knows that tomorrow won't be the same.
You kiss my knuckles as a soft goodbye and walk away from my house.
I come to school on Tuesday morning
and she's hanging off your coat in the hallways.
You look at me with pain in your eyes.
You offer no other explanation.
Jan 21, 2015
Jan 21, 2015 at 11:16 PM UTC
I take what I can get.
I don't ask questions I don't want to know the answers to.
I lay with you and map the plains of your face with my fingertips and I think:
this face, this face--- this face that's caused me so much pain,
this face I've seen buried in the neck of another girl,
holding her tight and apologizing for me.
How odd that I can place my palm on something that was such a symbol of pain for me once.
I hold your hands soft in my hands and I think:
these hands left an imprint in my skin, a warm reminder and then a cold sting-
but now they are touching me soft, and your lips are kissing me soft,
and I take what I can get.
I don't ask questions I don't want to know the answers to.
Jan 20, 2015
Jan 20, 2015 at 7:01 PM UTC