I massaged my temples
And cursed my heart.
I loved you,
And yet the pages remained blank,
The pen still held ink.
Quick romances in coffeeshops
Always found themselves
My one, my only,
Could drift away forever
With no memory to tie you down.
Only a broken poet
Is unable to write about the one they love.
You are a dangerous lexicon.
Excitement and passion wrapped up in confusion;
You baffle me to the depths of my being.
You can't find your way into my poetry
Because how can I fit a poem within itself?
You may lay your head against my breast,
Press your perfect lips against my neck,
Stain my shirts with your tears,
**** my sorrows with your smiles,
But you are too pure for any of my words.
I am a poet, but my love for you is beyond the reach of poetry.
Let us walk along the creases of the Universe,
Of the wrinkles etched in Time.
Let us balance on the edge of Insanity,
Toss our worries into a supernova.
Our veins are cheap yarn;
Thrown away when tangled
separation an impossibility.
My blood is your blood.
It is in the waves that crash along our coasts.
We can be careful or reckless,
But not both.
Broken souls lost in reverie;
We shall not fade as long as we never wake up.
They will not know who we are
When they try to identify our corpses.
John and Jane, they will call us;
The pair with matching fingerprints.
One extra glass of merlot
And you came running.
You cried out those forbidden words
And I told you that you were drunk.
“Drunken words are sober thoughts.”
I think you had forgotten by the morning.
You wrote a poem for me
And I cried.
You said I brought out the best in you.
You dreamt that you awoke to find
A figure at the foot of your bed:
You said you longed to walk hand-in-hand,
To hold me in the darkest hours of the morning.
Where are you now?
I am held together by glue and staples and
purple construction paper.
I fear not death, but life.
I am tattered and torn,
flammable and too close to flames,
I am a never-ending *** of coffee,
a broken alarm clock,
the warm side of a pillow,
the empty tube of toothpaste,
an unsolved crossword puzzle written in pen.
I fear not death, but life without poetry.
I know you’re trying to forget
The lonely words we spilled
With no discussion of repercussions;
Phrases that clung to our skin
And dirtied our souls.
I don’t know if I regret it,
But the memory lingers.
You told me that you would kiss
My lips, my neck, my hips
And that you longed for the touch
Of my gentle fingertips.
We overwhelmed ourselves;
A ****** of desire with no way out.
We were the Apocalypse.
We retreated to our own lives,
Our own beds, our own friends.
I asked how you felt, where we stood now;
And you left me to wonder
No matter how many showers I take,
I can’t cleanse myself
Of the hold you gained on me
With your gilded words late that night.
I know you’re trying to forget.
Eating rotisserie chicken in the passenger seat.
Cracked feet, pink thighs, windswept hair.
Specks of mascara sticking to the dark circles beneath your eyes.
Friction between your legs,
Bugs crawling through your veins,
Hot showers, cold showers,
Broken air conditioner.
A ring that doesn’t fit,
Drops of sweat running down your spine.
Lightning bugs dying,
My lord and savior,
Stuck in a world
Fifty years too late
And thousands of miles away.
Salmon flesh stuck to his legs
And his camouflage blent into his surroundings;
It was only visible by the sewed-on patch that read,
Hair held back tightly,
Sitting across from me
With a look of pure fascination,
We were introduced.
My gaze consistently found him,
Eyes closed, picturing the words and only the words.
Shoulders, chest, abdomen moving to the rhythm of
Stressed and unstressed syllables,
Snapping his fingers when his body contorted the most;
He could have walked on water.
With him standing on a chair screaming Ginsberg
Like a pastor would The Bible,
My heart skipped a beat
And I found religion.
I fell in love with a poet for a weekend and this is my tale.