Submit your work, meet writers and drop the ads. Become a member
 Jul 2020 arubybluebird
I'm in the mood
to press you

bitter sweet
chocolate drizzle
whipped cream.
Savory on your tongue.

Too bad I'm out of filters.

The steam warms my lungs.
A fresh breath of you starves off the cold. You speak and words spill out of your mouth like a ******* messiah. I grasp the chalice of your lips and swill the infinity of combination between my teeth. Twenty-six letters taste like gold. Milk and honey. Christmas Dinner. The thought of fingers burning poetry against my skin makes me sweat.

It's fall. Big surprise I'm thinking of you.
When the leaves tremble in winds that sting. I imagine you doing the same and I'm seduced by the thought. It would be so nice to know the veins of your form. To feel your fragility in intimate terms. To fold you over between the pads of my fingers- find your weak spots. Lines plowed in skin from desperate fingernails leave trenches perfect for warfare. I turn you up from your clavicles to your ankles.

Maybe it doesn't have to be so violent.
Maybe it can just be cold
and we can enjoy the intimacy
of a night on the porch
with a big blanket.

We'll strip down
to our souls.

You can sit in my lap
and I can swim in your eyes
while we both manage
to stay warm under the stars
and the comfort
 Mar 2020 arubybluebird
When butterflies fall in love, do they feel humans in their stomach?
She asked me to get drunk
and write poems.
I've been around the Sun
Thirty times and can tell you
that love is like
reading Bukowski

And Jesus
and all of us
wept while the sun
fled west to Copernicum
With roses in her wake

I intentionally failed to wish you
a happy birthday this year,
though I know significant dates,
hours, moments, people,
by heart.
I still search for you in boys
I mistake for bandages,
the ones with eyes almost
the same shade of your hazels,
lips resounding your laughter,
resembling a wisp of your smile,
But they aren't you.


Sometimes I pretend you're dead,
because it's less painful
to stop reaching out into voids.


My mom still blames you
for everything that preceded that year.
Though you probably had no idea what happened
when we stopped talking altogether.
Can you believe it's almost been three years?


My dad wonders who was my 'one that got away'
Though, I'm pretty sure he knows
it's you.


Remember how I mentioned Sylvia Plath?
How most everything she wrote
brimmed with melancholy?
How I loved every single word?
Especially that piece
where she talked about expectations
and disappointments.
You'll never know that
up to this day I still think
people are selfish enough to
always, eventually turn into the latter.
Even you.


It's sad I never got the chance
to tell you about Ted.
How she loved him so much,
she just had to dive headfirst
into the flames-- burning herself,
what was left of her--
after she found out
he never really loved her
the same way
she loved him
in the first place.


truth is,
some of us
never learn to accept
the love we think we deserve.


I don't know if you still read my poems
or if you still think about me,
about us, sometimes.
Every time you fall asleep past eleven,
a part of me hopes you do.
because I always remember you--
in birthday candles, red ribbons,
off-tune voice records, golden arches,
concrete sidewalks, pedestrian lanes,
the last flickers of city lights
softly fading out of the blue.
I remember you
in everything, in everywhere,
in everyone.
It's useless, no matter how much I try to forget.
No matter how much I just want to forget.
I want to forget.

But, how could I?

When forgetting means forsaking
the very memory of you.
And if you are to love,
Love as the moon loves.
It doesn't steal the night,
It only unveils the beauty of the dark.

And if you are to love,
Love as the rain loves.
It doesn't wet the bodies,
It only washes the sad dirt of the souls.

And if you are to love,
Love as the wind loves.
It doesn't drift away,
It only cleanse you to the core by invading through each pore.

And if you are to love,
Love as the sun loves.
It doesn't radiates heat,
It only pours its warmth on you to enlighten your way.

And if you are to love,
Love as the star loves.
It doesn't delightfully twinkles,
It only reminds you that not even death can separate two hearts.

And so forth,
if you are to love
Love as the whole universe
& not just a part of it.
 Apr 2018 arubybluebird
Mel K
7m 31s
 Apr 2018 arubybluebird
Mel K
Perhaps you and I are an eclipse
and our life spans are the time before and after it. As to make sure it only happens once.

And we will glance at one another for a long moment before our fingertips slip through the space between our hands like desert sand.

One last time I will tell you how the stars were always just the light in your eyes, shining through the cracks in my bedroom ceiling and I was merely the darkness inside the room.

If I could stand on my tippy-toes, the way you like it, I would lasso planet HAT-P-7b and place it in your chest between those stars that made you.

But you will vanish from my sight and take my universe with you. And I, spacebound, will travel another 7 years into the next lifetime to find your arms around me in the morning.

Even if our next eclipse lasts only 7 minutes and 31 seconds.
if you like astronomy you will know why that planet is so special. ***
 Mar 2018 arubybluebird
This is not a love poem
this is an I love you do you love me like
I love you poem
do you know me like
you think you do poem
this is a would you be disappointed
if you did poem
an I have been feeling the chilling of the air
and I cant tell if it is just the fault of the season
or if you, too, are cooling
whatever heat you had for me
browning and falling and
crumbling between my fingers
like the leaves of these oak trees
in november poem
a what would I need to do to keep us warm poem
and this is also
an I may be completely mistaken poem
an it was seventy degrees today poem
this is a show me I am completely mistaken poem
Next page