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Cherub Nitman Nov 2013
I could write about all of the things that make you wonderful,
or all of the things that don't,
but either way you'd be getting what you want.
I could write about your eyes,
and how they make my bones vibrate.
The way that they morph into hollow chestnut soldiers who have accepted their dreadful fate,
Or the way they surrender to your smile prompting fire to question it's purpose.
I could write about your lips,
and how they're the strongest magnets I know.
The way they ******* my elbows and make my fingertips tingle,
Or the fact that they taste like my favorite flavor of euphoria.

But I'm sure you've heard it all before,
So instead,
I will write what I feel.
Because your eyes are yours,
and your lips are yours,
but my feelings belong to me.

You know that feeling in your lungs when you've just run a thousand miles,
that pain in your head after you've cried a thousand tears,
you are that feeling, you are that pain.

I used to be a granite countertop,
shiny and cold,
as still as a living stone could be.
My eyes were a place for people's empty glasses,
nothing more,
and my smile was a painting made from the grease of half eaten pizzas.

At first, you managed to make gravity give up on me,
the granite shattered and I became something else,
hovering above success and failure,
elation and pain.
Unable to touch down because none of the above sounded okay.
Afraid of the good as well as the bad,
no laughs and no tears,
no daydreaming about future love affairs,
just an observer,
a hot air balloon.

Then you touched me,
And it burned like a cult of dragons,
Breathing fire down my spine.
Your hands turned my skin into sparkling water,
Bubbling and fizzing,
Unsettled razzle dazzle.
Each time our lips touch,
I taste a bitter happiness,
Sour, spicy, sweet,
Pixie dust and dragonflies.
Time has lost it's steady pace.

I am a slave to your existence,
Like the way that jellyfish move, without control or purpose,
or the way the sand can't run away from the sea.
Somehow you've managed to pump wonder into my lungs,
and fill my head with weeping willows.
the dancer in my beating heart, found her rhythm in yours.

Some nights, after you've fallen asleep,
I imagine myself sleeping atop your eyelashes,
cuddling with constant contradicting comparisons,
snuggling with smug smiling faces,
spooning the speckled souls who speak without thinking,
tangled in your secret stash of picturesque ideals.

I wish we could jump in a death cab,
and go somewhere brand new,
because baby, I could stare at those bright eyes for all of eternity.
Cherub Nitman Jul 2013
I desired everything...almost.

Her skin was sweet and silky,
like caramel.
Her legs summoned desperate curiosity,
small scars confirming mortality.
Her ******* so seductively,
protected her heart from any and everything.
Her lips..
Those ******* lips,
displayed multitudinous emotions,
while evoking one thing in me..
Her eyes were saturated with love,
stolen, never returned.
Souls who thought they had a chance,
with this majestic bibelot,
crashed and burned.

But her hands weren't quite right.
They had met too many bodies,
and strangled too many hearts.
She touched me with discouraging confidence,
meticulously impersonal,
and disturbingly arrogant.

Her hyper awareness of carnal pleasures,
allowed her to manipulate with false intimacy.
Calculated movements,
determined to **** you in.
Rehearsed responses,
emotional and physical.

We shared beautiful moments,
and kisses.
But I found truth,
hidden in her fingertips.

I am no longer mesmerized,
by the illusion,
of her.
Cherub Nitman May 2013
and them.
an act of separation.
put the pieces together for sanity,
unaware of truth,
battles between us with no intent,
your god, my god,
he's gay...and she's not.
living beneath a blindfold.
a dark, heavy blindfold.

but, ignorance is bliss right?
well, then why do I lay awake at night
eyes open,
of the vast ocean where
bazaar creatures of the deep,
thrive with no sleep,
in a world within a world.

I wonder if they dream of us too.
can they imagine me..or you?
or do they dream of worlds unseen?
where souls matter more than green,
where limitations do not persist,
where us and them,
do more than coexist,
where no man has a use for blow,
there is where I'd like to go.
Cherub Nitman Apr 2013
Your favorite color is green,
You know this to be true.
But what if the color green,
Is actually deep blue?

You like the smell of spring,
Warm sunshine and new life.
But what if spring for someone else,
Is filled with worry and strife.

Your childhood was full,
Of hope and love and dreams.
But some child in a far off place,
Knew only his mothers screams.

The sky is blue for you my dear,
I know this to be right.
You're young, foolish and lost,
You live in pools of light.

Please understand that life is bliss,
Not through ignorance or greed.
The life we live is hit or miss,
And no one breathes for free.
Cherub Nitman Mar 2013
When I breathe,
You breathe.

As I sit by this angry fire,
I am at war and at peace.

Your face lingers,
Like dust on a bookshelf,
Like the stench of old cologne,
But I am no longer consumed by it.

My overwhelming desire,
Is a distant memory.
You restructured my being,
A living-lifeless paradox.

Your laugh melted my walls,
And your eyes were magic stones.
Your lips were soft as snowflakes,
And sometimes just as cold.

Every now and again,
I'm swarmed by memories of you.
They no longer bring me anguish,
Or unbearable tear-filled dreams,
But proof that we were real.
And we always will be.
Cherub Nitman Feb 2013
I think I'm getting a
Sinus infection.
It feels all too familiar,
And ******.
Maybe it's because I've been ******,
To others.
Or maybe because I threw my
Cigarette on the ground.
Maybe because I looked at,
A stranger,
And judged him.
Or because I lied to my boss,
Regarding my tardiness.
None of these.
I'm ashamed,
For thinking that someone,
Cares enough to punish me,
For my lack of consistent morality.
I accept instead,
That life is indifferent,
And sometimes,
Good and bad,
Fall ill.
Cherub Nitman Feb 2013
has been her
drink of choice
for as long as I can recall.
It is again tonight.
And as she scolds me, for my
she pours another glass.
I made her feel terrible,
about walking through the living room,
with a spoonful of hot chili.
It was ridiculous,
but she couldn't tell.
So I'll sip my wine upstairs,
and hope that my mom doesn't leave.
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