makeloveandtea - Hello Poetry

you say it another time in the kitchen; then i say it with coffee in the evening. we sit, quietly, together at the end of day — maybe you watch a film; my feet at your lap; i open an old book ... and there it is again.

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Apr 21, 2021

Apr 21, 2021 at 5:12 AM UTC

lovenote

you say it another time in the kitchen; then i say it with coffee in the evening. we sit, quietly, together at the end of day — maybe you watch a film; my feet at your lap; i open an old book ... and there it is again.

21

you want the sofa with nine lives -- made in a warehouse, carried into a bright room, then a judge's office, then an apartment; under the taking off and putting on of clothes. i want to paint the cabinets white. every morning — naked, when you start to put a shirt on, i want to bring you back in bed; tell you how i have never seen anything as beautiful as you. you want to tame your wild hair in the shower. i want a second cup of coffee in the evening. you want pickles on your sandwich. softly, as the day becomes blue, rosé, then burnt- orange — the lights come on. i open and close the refrigerator; you put music on. somewhere, in the middle, i want you just how you want me. the delicious smell of cooking garlic; a familiar song. you want me just how i want you.

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Apr 10, 2021

Apr 10, 2021 at 7:23 AM UTC

i want you, sweet thing

you want the sofa with nine lives -- made in a warehouse, carried into a bright room, then a judge's office, then an apartment; under the taking off and putting on of clothes. i want to paint the cabinets white. every morning — naked, when you start to put a shirt on, i want to bring you back in bed; tell you how i have never seen anything as beautiful as you. you want to tame your wild hair in the shower. i want a second cup of coffee in the evening. you want pickles on your sandwich. softly, as the day becomes blue, rosé, then burnt- orange — the lights come on. i open and close the refrigerator; you put music on. somewhere, in the middle, i want you just how you want me. the delicious smell of cooking garlic; a familiar song. you want me just how i want you.

80

i have overslept; daylight pouring through the sheer curtains in our room. "if you're awake — i'm bringing us croissants from the bakery!" warm toes on cold floors; a shirt — yours or mine. sweet tinkling of the wind chimes outside; the dull sounds of a possible lawnmower somewhere. walking to the kitchen; the apartment is empty, except — our dog is fed, two cups -- clean and waiting on the counter; music softly playing on the radio; the gurgle of the coffee machine — a knock on the door — croissants are here, and you. oh, you.

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Apr 3, 2021

Apr 3, 2021 at 1:21 PM UTC

morning; empty apartment

i have overslept; daylight pouring through the sheer curtains in our room. "if you're awake — i'm bringing us croissants from the bakery!" warm toes on cold floors; a shirt — yours or mine. sweet tinkling of the wind chimes outside; the dull sounds of a possible lawnmower somewhere. walking to the kitchen; the apartment is empty, except — our dog is fed, two cups -- clean and waiting on the counter; music softly playing on the radio; the gurgle of the coffee machine — a knock on the door — croissants are here, and you. oh, you.

57

in about ten years we will sit at a very familiar coffeeshop, and get the same coffee and bacon-egg things, for the eleven- hundredth time. in a moment, four or five months ago, we will have sat in the car and decided to make a life together. seven odd years from now, we will find ourselves in front of a window, as it rained outside your parents' home. a year or two in the past, we will have crossed paths without even noticing. in many an uncountable week; my bare thighs pressed against yours — we will slowly fall into making love, first thing in the morning. last september you will have gone into a cornfield and told me that i was the one. fifty-three minutes from now you will have had your lunch and kissed me again. several years ago, we will have gone to bed in different worlds, without knowing each other. somewhere in the exact middle, we will have unknowingly imagined and prayed just for this.

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Apr 2, 2021

Apr 2, 2021 at 1:15 PM UTC

in the middle

in about ten years we will sit at a very familiar coffeeshop, and get the same coffee and bacon-egg things, for the eleven- hundredth time. in a moment, four or five months ago, we will have sat in the car and decided to make a life together. seven odd years from now, we will find ourselves in front of a window, as it rained outside your parents' home. a year or two in the past, we will have crossed paths without even noticing. in many an uncountable week; my bare thighs pressed against yours — we will slowly fall into making love, first thing in the morning. last september you will have gone into a cornfield and told me that i was the one. fifty-three minutes from now you will have had your lunch and kissed me again. several years ago, we will have gone to bed in different worlds, without knowing each other. somewhere in the exact middle, we will have unknowingly imagined and prayed just for this.

82

turning in bed; the last thing you said to me is the first thing on my mind. last night's dishes are still soaking in the sink, in the morning. if to love is to stop reflecting in bed and wash the ***** -- clean, then i am terrible at love today.

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Apr 1, 2021

Apr 1, 2021 at 11:49 AM UTC

morning after

turning in bed; the last thing you said to me is the first thing on my mind. last night's dishes are still soaking in the sink, in the morning. if to love is to stop reflecting in bed and wash the ***** -- clean, then i am terrible at love today.

21

if you look at the scatter of stars in the sky enough; new constellations begin to, slowly, materialize. orion's belt is suddenly a man in a postal hat buying croissants at a bakery; aquila is string-lights on a balcony. the morning sun pours in as you sit, quietly, at the table — warm matzah, too fragile for butter; words in your brain — a tiny car on the windiest day. if you look at decades- old photographs enough; they start to morph into monsters bigger than the whole of you. if you look at the monsters enough; you are left with love. the driveway is covered in snow; the man is wearing flip-flops at the park; the lilacs are beginning to grow; the sunlight in the afternoon is turning the grass ochre-brown. you're at the table; flatbread and depression. i take you, by the hand, to the smallest corner of this house. stop. look. if you lay here, with me, and look at the ceiling enough; the paint starts to become a night sky, and there are constellations.

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Mar 28, 2021

Mar 28, 2021 at 2:28 PM UTC

coping at the table

if you look at the scatter of stars in the sky enough; new constellations begin to, slowly, materialize. orion's belt is suddenly a man in a postal hat buying croissants at a bakery; aquila is string-lights on a balcony. the morning sun pours in as you sit, quietly, at the table — warm matzah, too fragile for butter; words in your brain — a tiny car on the windiest day. if you look at decades- old photographs enough; they start to morph into monsters bigger than the whole of you. if you look at the monsters enough; you are left with love. the driveway is covered in snow; the man is wearing flip-flops at the park; the lilacs are beginning to grow; the sunlight in the afternoon is turning the grass ochre-brown. you're at the table; flatbread and depression. i take you, by the hand, to the smallest corner of this house. stop. look. if you lay here, with me, and look at the ceiling enough; the paint starts to become a night sky, and there are constellations.

86

against the closed window; on the coffee table — steam from the two cups is the only significant movement in this room. then, the rising and falling of your chest next to me. how and when am i making this life? is this it? how and when can i give you love? is this it? daylight has gone and come again; the chinese silver grass has survived the snow. in new day, we have made new home on a porch; on a balcony; on an old second- hand sofa; dusted and loved again. crawled under a white table, you have tried to fold yourself into nothing — "you couldn't stay small if you tried" how and when are you making this life? is this it? the maple tree, autumn-colour trousers, soaring choir, chocolate pecans, a flask found; a life lost, cornfields, sirens, a wooden cigar box, roads and stories that lead to places unnamed and unknown are all in an endless loop on this conveyor belt. we are here; waiting for the end of this day. beginning of this morning; you will wake up any moment now. how and when can you give me love? when you ask me to hold you, i hold myself. this is it.

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Mar 15, 2021

Mar 15, 2021 at 2:32 PM UTC

chinese silvergrass

against the closed window; on the coffee table — steam from the two cups is the only significant movement in this room. then, the rising and falling of your chest next to me. how and when am i making this life? is this it? how and when can i give you love? is this it? daylight has gone and come again; the chinese silver grass has survived the snow. in new day, we have made new home on a porch; on a balcony; on an old second- hand sofa; dusted and loved again. crawled under a white table, you have tried to fold yourself into nothing — "you couldn't stay small if you tried" how and when are you making this life? is this it? the maple tree, autumn-colour trousers, soaring choir, chocolate pecans, a flask found; a life lost, cornfields, sirens, a wooden cigar box, roads and stories that lead to places unnamed and unknown are all in an endless loop on this conveyor belt. we are here; waiting for the end of this day. beginning of this morning; you will wake up any moment now. how and when can you give me love? when you ask me to hold you, i hold myself. this is it.

95

"i have no socks" you say; slightly frustrated in the morning. i watch you — splendid human-dust float about our little home. in worldly commotion about making the most of this life, i wonder how much more it takes to make the most? if there was such a thing, would it certainly not be this? here? tea poured from a saucepan into a flask. driving far in the night to watch meteors fall or pick up mid-week groceries. could 'most' be in a state of mind that makes for a lovely, long sleep? coffee cups washed and dried; walking along a market making songs out of words at random. shoots becoming leaves on a new plant. arms and legs? warm water? clementines? sunlight? this? here? big sigh. you stop in the middle of the room. look at me. all the socks are in the left drawer.

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Feb 3, 2021

Feb 3, 2021 at 5:53 AM UTC

the most is here

"i have no socks" you say; slightly frustrated in the morning. i watch you — splendid human-dust float about our little home. in worldly commotion about making the most of this life, i wonder how much more it takes to make the most? if there was such a thing, would it certainly not be this? here? tea poured from a saucepan into a flask. driving far in the night to watch meteors fall or pick up mid-week groceries. could 'most' be in a state of mind that makes for a lovely, long sleep? coffee cups washed and dried; walking along a market making songs out of words at random. shoots becoming leaves on a new plant. arms and legs? warm water? clementines? sunlight? this? here? big sigh. you stop in the middle of the room. look at me. all the socks are in the left drawer.

82

july was a long time ago. i'm still almost asleep here underneath this tree; surrounded by unknown wildflowers -- yellow, blue some purple. the insects, come alive, on wood and grass have started to sing; the rosy evening sky is mixing with a soft golden sun. eyes shut, i can hear the children playing at a distance. giggles; the bark of a big dog with sweet eyes. the little girl has peach ribbons in her hair. of course, this i imagine lying here. strands of my wild hair are swaying with the breeze; bare toes and thighs and skirt covered in damp earth. as the clementines from the clementine tree start to fall, i turn to lay on my back. watching, with my eyes closed, the stars slowly appear. lying alone here, in this meadow, i can feel the months go by -- the insects dying and being born again; summer air becoming colder against my bare legs.

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Jan 6, 2021

Jan 6, 2021 at 11:55 PM UTC

a year at the meadow

july was a long time ago. i'm still almost asleep here underneath this tree; surrounded by unknown wildflowers -- yellow, blue some purple. the insects, come alive, on wood and grass have started to sing; the rosy evening sky is mixing with a soft golden sun. eyes shut, i can hear the children playing at a distance. giggles; the bark of a big dog with sweet eyes. the little girl has peach ribbons in her hair. of course, this i imagine lying here. strands of my wild hair are swaying with the breeze; bare toes and thighs and skirt covered in damp earth. as the clementines from the clementine tree start to fall, i turn to lay on my back. watching, with my eyes closed, the stars slowly appear. lying alone here, in this meadow, i can feel the months go by -- the insects dying and being born again; summer air becoming colder against my bare legs.

83

i tried my best to love you and ask for nothing in return. the pots and pans in the kitchen remained unmoved. morning tea; never made. the plants were slowly dying.

0

Dec 18, 2020

Dec 18, 2020 at 11:42 AM UTC

unconditional

i tried my best to love you and ask for nothing in return. the pots and pans in the kitchen remained unmoved. morning tea; never made. the plants were slowly dying.

19