The radio talks incessantly, a chatterbox relative sat against the wall
never seen but always there, a constant stream of noise.
Every now and again something is said that catches your ear
and empties itself into your attempts at poetry, a muse, an education,
a place you had never been, or will be quite the same ever again.

What if
          I
                                                  ­Fall
In
              Love
With
      A
       Poet?
What if he mesmerises me
       With his lines?
What if
        His words touch me
        And kiss
           Through my skin?
     What if i search for
Him
Everyday
And
      Travel through
              His words
    And meet him
                  Somewhere
       And
We
       Become bare
          And he caresses
Me
          With every
      Stanza
And
       Here
           I am
                Again
Searching
           For him,
    Wanting
Him
        With
                 All
                      Desire
Waiting
             For
                 His
                   Next
                      Poem
                         To
                            Take
                             ­ Me
                          To
                       His
                   World
                Where
             We
          Will
        Lay
      Bare
   What if
               I
                  Fall in love
                      With
                  A
             ­         Poet?

© Evna-Luna

If ever there was a way
To see you as clear as day
And kiss you without say
Like children lost in play
Beneath the sun and its ripening ray
So love may bloom without dismay
If ever there was a way
I wish it sooner before this day fades away

There's this crazy little word
floating all about
inside my fuzzy ol' head
and it's dooing that pitter patty pat thing
to my silly old heart

and it's awhispering sweetly
little puffs of breath
whispering all magical
to my pink and glitter heart

"Shhh now silly,
stop and listen.
look silly heart,
look inside and you'll see

you feel that pitter patty pat thing?
well, you know when that happens, you're a gonna
it's that crazy little thing that's ahappening to your heart
the thing that's made of always, the thing that's made of forever
you feels it dontcha?
the pitter patty pat thing?

well, i'm afraid i hafta tellya
that that floaty little word
that's messin with your fuzzy little head
and dooing that pitter patty patting on your silly old heart
*is called love"

I go back to that place

Through the green door
Enter the red brick house

Mikhu is still the little fairy
My eyes look for
And still my shyness
Forces me to look away
In her mother's presence

In the faraway attic
She furtively cooks me a meal
We make love
That brush our skin faintly

When I come out
She stands at the green door

Then upon the here
She is no more