But it is when I kiss you
That I rush the poem of love,

And the righteous time delays
Its clockwork move,

And all the writers, old and new,
Write to agree with me.

Only when I kiss you...

When you begin...
     ...to kiss me back.*

© 2015 J.S.P.

Not even the vein
On her ringfinger
Reached
Her heart.*

© 2015 J.S.P.

My heart was
An empty
Nudist beach
Before I met you,
But now
You are there,
We are there.
     And finally
          Are...*

© 2015 J.S.P.

If so, this earnestness requited be,
That as I move the mountains this, then that,
Your eyes, they turn to me,
To ignore the world for coffee cups,
For clumsy poetry,
And then, to listen closely,

Then consider this poet gone,
A word ahead from you,
A blank page behind,
To sweet, sudden silences—
A kiss, a dot, and are ellipses,

For when I love you,
Because you make me want to,
You wring the clothes of my heart,
The high sun is wet,
And I have nothing left to hide.*

© 2015 J.S.P.

Maybe next time
It is not just your tablet
But, also, my chest,

When it is not just my tablet,
     But, also...*

© 2015 J.S.P.

I like the improbabilities that go with love,
Just as when I held your hand
But never really held it,
As the physicists would oppose to the idea,
Saying that it is because
Of the electrons and stuff, and quantum stuff
Which I find so hard to believe.

(But you, dear, frankly,
You need not make me believe,
Only wonder.)

See, I look
At you, closely,
And closer still as if
Two comets, themselves, defied
The distance of lightyears,
For me,
Just to look back.

You are a star, love, I think,
And I have likened my self to the Universe,
Not because you are near,
But because you are far,
Yet far enough...

So I could love.*

© 2015 J.S.P.