I miss you,
on afternoons after long days,
new calluses forming
from gripping buckets,
on endless drives
where my eyes fight sleep.

Where are you,
my love,
that I don’t see you
or feel you
resting on my chest,
your bare knee
tucked between mine?

Morena,
beautiful girl who loves with her eyes,
roses pressed into every kiss,
I miss them,
every morning I wake
with only dawn to keep me company.

Kiss me, pretty girl,
tangled in a sea of sheets.
Kiss me now,
and later,
on lonely mornings
and quiet afternoons.

Do it now,
as the air fills with pollen,
as spring unravels red buds
one by one.

The pecan trees know
the cold won’t return.

So let me hold you,
my aching hands wrapped around you,
for as long as you are here.

vhs flickers, tv static, i blink once
and my whole world has disappeared.
i lean into the feel of your hands that call
my body “home”, but they do not feel me:
tell me what you want.

i watch the men mingle with women; touch
sandwiched between skin and the slick and
for once i cannot breathe because
it suffocates me.

what is it like?
to be given so much that you must take?

like oil on canvas, a vivid depiction of a love
we shared in my fantasy; i’m chasing after
a passionate night
still haunted by a graphite shadow.

gray winter light & umbrella for the rain;
i sit in my disappointment because this coat is
much too thin, so i begin to wish
that it is warmer for me in someone else’s arms

so much to give yet no one to share with.
it’s a tragedy, i know— i know love is born in the flesh,
yet swallowed through our bodies intertwined,
sweat & the afterglow of our parting lips
long after we’ve kissed

when i hover, heat of yours melds to mine;
skin warm, replaced by the gentle grasp of
wishing i had been— then your irises are raking
through ink of a book. breaths bated, arms
brushing because finally you do not see me

i step out into the rain bare,
breathing in satisfaction,
touched only by the purity of rain.
i can’t help but to smile as i let
the gloom kiss my skin

I’m in a late night bar
in the big city
only the sound of
Johnny Hartman on
a background radio
and thoughts of her
keep me here
through a subtle hint
of pure blue I can
almost feel the
distant neon glow
the shadows dance
across the room like
black angels the wind
whispers through an
open widow like a
ghostly stranger
the features of her face
are captured within
the silhouette of
a perfect grey
the twisting smoke
curls from her fingers
from her lips drift
a thousand sorrows
she walks past me
with tremendous style
she walks past me
close enough to touch …
Clay.M