lizabeth-1 - Hello Poetry

How do you tell anyone that the baby you have inside is the son or daughter of a man with a wife? You don’t. You take the bus or the train to a grey building and you ignore the names and yelling and you sign the forms and close your eyes. You don’t tell anyone. Except him. And he has the ***** to tell you it was a good thing you knew what to do without him.

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Oct 27, 2015

Oct 27, 2015 at 9:11 PM UTC

Life.

How do you tell anyone that the baby you have inside is the son or daughter of a man with a wife? You don’t. You take the bus or the train to a grey building and you ignore the names and yelling and you sign the forms and close your eyes. You don’t tell anyone. Except him. And he has the ***** to tell you it was a good thing you knew what to do without him.

15

It was for just an instant, but I felt the way two hungry eyes watched me sway. The heat of the room hid my blush, but your cheeks glowed pink and lush. Possessed, and desiring to be a dream I danced intending to extend the fantasy theme. I was on stage performing my long practiced swing like a flower with petals blooming in the spring. Coming alive, I choreographed every step of my form, and did not for a second feel your eyes, from me, torn.

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Jan 28, 2014

Jan 28, 2014 at 12:26 AM UTC

Hungry.

It was for just an instant, but I felt the way two hungry eyes watched me sway. The heat of the room hid my blush, but your cheeks glowed pink and lush. Possessed, and desiring to be a dream I danced intending to extend the fantasy theme. I was on stage performing my long practiced swing like a flower with petals blooming in the spring. Coming alive, I choreographed every step of my form, and did not for a second feel your eyes, from me, torn.

10

In late January, you walked into my life and for the briefest second I felt like a flower blooming. Each petal folding backwards, falling softly to expose me warming from the inside out. The first thing you said to me was to name a Morpho in flight, with the name I would choose for him. That was when I felt my ice melting and know yours did too, in your easy smile and black curls. I was smitten from the moment that we met, and I pray tonight that today will not be the last.

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Jan 26, 2014

Jan 26, 2014 at 9:32 PM UTC

Naming Butterflies

In late January, you walked into my life and for the briefest second I felt like a flower blooming. Each petal folding backwards, falling softly to expose me warming from the inside out. The first thing you said to me was to name a Morpho in flight, with the name I would choose for him. That was when I felt my ice melting and know yours did too, in your easy smile and black curls. I was smitten from the moment that we met, and I pray tonight that today will not be the last.

15

I’ve got no right and of that I’m very well aware, that I should have a say in how you wear your hair. That I shouldn’t think it looks the nicest after you’ve showered, when it’s darker and the lines of your combs teeth leave neat rows in your styled way. Or maybe that I love you when you’ve shaved, but also grizzly bear you reminds me it’s the weekend. When you're ruff, I know there are a few more precious hours in the Saturday and Sundays on the calendar. I won’t ever tell you that your grey tee shirt is my favorite of your limited wardrobe, and that you in my favorite color—it’s blue if you were wondering, though I'm sure you already know— makes my head swoon for a bit. When you wear a button up, and leave it un-tucked, I think about the white vee neck beneath and how I can see it peeking out from beneath your collar. I love the way your suit jacket makes you stand up straighter, and how your suit pants when you sit reveal those brown socks you always wear with your wingtips. I even love those blue jeans (I think they’re your only pair) that aren’t stylish, but soft and comfortable. And the brown belt with the cracking leather and brass buckle you always play with when you’re laying on the floor with me, watching nonsense tv at the end of a day. I love your sweatpants, and the way that when you lie on your side, your boxer band shows like a tease. I like the way you never fix it, but it fixates me.

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Oct 5, 2013

Oct 5, 2013 at 12:22 AM UTC

Fixates me.

I’ve got no right and of that I’m very well aware, that I should have a say in how you wear your hair. That I shouldn’t think it looks the nicest after you’ve showered, when it’s darker and the lines of your combs teeth leave neat rows in your styled way. Or maybe that I love you when you’ve shaved, but also grizzly bear you reminds me it’s the weekend. When you're ruff, I know there are a few more precious hours in the Saturday and Sundays on the calendar. I won’t ever tell you that your grey tee shirt is my favorite of your limited wardrobe, and that you in my favorite color—it’s blue if you were wondering, though I'm sure you already know— makes my head swoon for a bit. When you wear a button up, and leave it un-tucked, I think about the white vee neck beneath and how I can see it peeking out from beneath your collar. I love the way your suit jacket makes you stand up straighter, and how your suit pants when you sit reveal those brown socks you always wear with your wingtips. I even love those blue jeans (I think they’re your only pair) that aren’t stylish, but soft and comfortable. And the brown belt with the cracking leather and brass buckle you always play with when you’re laying on the floor with me, watching nonsense tv at the end of a day. I love your sweatpants, and the way that when you lie on your side, your boxer band shows like a tease. I like the way you never fix it, but it fixates me.

4

I noticed today how tall you look when you stand at the cash register in the grocery store. I swear I wasn’t trying to, it's just that I looked up and there you were in your suit and tie and I was caught. I’m so sorry that when you take your glasses off I picture you sleeping on the pillow beside me. And I’m so sorry that sometimes when I can’t sleep, I wrap my arms around myself and put a pillow against my back. I put my hand across my bare skin, on my hip, and I pretend you’re there. I pretend we’re just sleeping, nothing else. There’s time for that too, but I can’t quite articulate that yet. Anyway, you’re how I sleep on sleepless nights, or at least the dream of you. That’s why I noticed how tall you are, when you were standing in line. Because I was imagining how you would fit perfectly behind me when I was asleep against my pillow tonight.

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Oct 5, 2013

Oct 5, 2013 at 12:11 AM UTC

Asleep against you.

I noticed today how tall you look when you stand at the cash register in the grocery store. I swear I wasn’t trying to, it's just that I looked up and there you were in your suit and tie and I was caught. I’m so sorry that when you take your glasses off I picture you sleeping on the pillow beside me. And I’m so sorry that sometimes when I can’t sleep, I wrap my arms around myself and put a pillow against my back. I put my hand across my bare skin, on my hip, and I pretend you’re there. I pretend we’re just sleeping, nothing else. There’s time for that too, but I can’t quite articulate that yet. Anyway, you’re how I sleep on sleepless nights, or at least the dream of you. That’s why I noticed how tall you are, when you were standing in line. Because I was imagining how you would fit perfectly behind me when I was asleep against my pillow tonight.

4

The trick? My friend, I shall tell you the trick. Forget the dream. Forget the dream, and mention it to no one. Lock it in the drawer with all the others, the ones you never tell, even when you’re drunk. Because those dreams are yours, and for a girl who wears her feelings on her face, you’ve got to have something to keep hidden away. So let it be the dreams. The dreams you wish were reality, with all your heart. The ones that make you sad to be awake, that you think about all day long. That you create stories from, or poems in the middle of the night. The dreams that drive you crazy with the unknown, the imagined. Keep them back, because to unlock that drawer and spill the secrets held within is to open a pandora’s box you’ll never be able to close again.

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Oct 3, 2013

Oct 3, 2013 at 10:01 AM UTC

The Dream Trick.

The trick? My friend, I shall tell you the trick. Forget the dream. Forget the dream, and mention it to no one. Lock it in the drawer with all the others, the ones you never tell, even when you’re drunk. Because those dreams are yours, and for a girl who wears her feelings on her face, you’ve got to have something to keep hidden away. So let it be the dreams. The dreams you wish were reality, with all your heart. The ones that make you sad to be awake, that you think about all day long. That you create stories from, or poems in the middle of the night. The dreams that drive you crazy with the unknown, the imagined. Keep them back, because to unlock that drawer and spill the secrets held within is to open a pandora’s box you’ll never be able to close again.

3

People write letters full of heartache or lace or moonlight. Sometimes all three. I can’t really tell you what they all say but as the envelope splits I feel each voice spilling out into my hands, into the air.

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Sep 13, 2013

Sep 13, 2013 at 12:55 PM UTC

Letters of Lace

People write letters full of heartache or lace or moonlight. Sometimes all three. I can’t really tell you what they all say but as the envelope splits I feel each voice spilling out into my hands, into the air.

9

I dreamt we kissed. It wasn’t anything cinematic, only that our heads were bent in conversation, and you pressed your lips to mine. It was cold, the kiss. And I felt the pressure in my sleep. The pressure pulling us together, the sensation of your lips on me, and the stress when waking that it was all a dream.

0

Sep 13, 2013

Sep 13, 2013 at 12:54 PM UTC

Dream of a Kiss.

I dreamt we kissed. It wasn’t anything cinematic, only that our heads were bent in conversation, and you pressed your lips to mine. It was cold, the kiss. And I felt the pressure in my sleep. The pressure pulling us together, the sensation of your lips on me, and the stress when waking that it was all a dream.

11

Brown sneakers kicked off haphazardly between the wall and desk look like you stepped from them and into my bed, as you pulled my cotton dress over head and I worked the catch on your belt. Sheets twisted and blankets un-tucked illustrate in simplest truth the way we tossed and turned all night until harsh song roused us from sleep as I kissed your shoulder, and you played with the dimples in my back. The way your jeans lie on the back of the chair, thrown there this morning in an attempt to clean up last night, as we slept past alarms and said good morning too long. Your red toothbrush rests on the bathroom counter, a blob of calcified tooth paste in the sink marks where you forget to run water as I applied mascara and you tied your tie. Keys fished from pockets lock the front door as we exit sealing the night behind us in the tiny space where we closed our eyes as you told me secrets and I opened my lips to capture them.

0

Sep 10, 2013

Sep 10, 2013 at 10:54 PM UTC

Space Behind Us.

Brown sneakers kicked off haphazardly between the wall and desk look like you stepped from them and into my bed, as you pulled my cotton dress over head and I worked the catch on your belt. Sheets twisted and blankets un-tucked illustrate in simplest truth the way we tossed and turned all night until harsh song roused us from sleep as I kissed your shoulder, and you played with the dimples in my back. The way your jeans lie on the back of the chair, thrown there this morning in an attempt to clean up last night, as we slept past alarms and said good morning too long. Your red toothbrush rests on the bathroom counter, a blob of calcified tooth paste in the sink marks where you forget to run water as I applied mascara and you tied your tie. Keys fished from pockets lock the front door as we exit sealing the night behind us in the tiny space where we closed our eyes as you told me secrets and I opened my lips to capture them.

30

In the busy station Men and Women, sit motionless, like statues curled in on themselves, their bodies bent and twisted in, on the long benches grotesquely alone. They are wrapped in the protective cloak of Honey, don’t stare or That poor soul…mind dear, not too close. Hours go on, counted down on the great white face of time keepings trains on track and men on schedule. What is it, to walk among the living dead? Fallen angels with broken wings, tucked beneath them, silently waiting in the stillness of the busy hall.

0

Jun 3, 2013

Jun 3, 2013 at 11:50 PM UTC

Angels in the Station

In the busy station Men and Women, sit motionless, like statues curled in on themselves, their bodies bent and twisted in, on the long benches grotesquely alone. They are wrapped in the protective cloak of Honey, don’t stare or That poor soul…mind dear, not too close. Hours go on, counted down on the great white face of time keepings trains on track and men on schedule. What is it, to walk among the living dead? Fallen angels with broken wings, tucked beneath them, silently waiting in the stillness of the busy hall.

14