History is not
simply
the dates
and battles
buildings
and famous names
associated
merely with an
idea
or occurance.

History is not
years
lumped into
eras -
not general greatness
or the greatness
of generals.

It is
the wool
lovingly spun
by a mother’s hand
and stained
by a full day’s
honest labor.
It is the
pealing
of laughter
and church bells
in an untouched
meadow
of flowers
wild in every sense.

It is
stolen moments
in a hayloft
or on the bank of a river.
It is the heat
of the sun
beating down
on the shoulders
of a man
doing everything he can
to make it.

History
is in all
the moments
of lives
of people -
simply
people.

The world may change
but humanity is
constant.

I hate her -
that girl
in the mirror.
The one
who mocks me
with her
empty
mercurial gaze
and
that tempting smile
as shows me
every
tiny
flaw
and promises me
perfection.
I hate how
impossible
it is to
reconcile
myself
with that girl
I want to see
in the mirror.
I hate that she
cannot
fight this battle
for me.
I hate
that I will never
be that beautiful.

Maybe
I had one hit too many.
That would explain
my bra on the floor
my hand on your chest
the heavy breathing
of your desire.
I can’t
you breathe out
between bites on my neck.
I know.
This is wrong.
I moan
as our lips fuse together.
Probably.

In my mind
I know better
than to listen
to what my body is telling me
in the darkness of your room
with the fire
of your skin
against mine.

In your eyes
is the expectation
of regret
and your lack of concern
as you
trace
the curves
beneath you.

But under those sheets
is the knowledge
that nothing will -
Nothing can
come between us.

Not tonight.

He wouldn't laugh
if he knew
how much of
me
still belonged
to him.

He would close his eyes
(almost -
is that -
regret?
desire?
disappointment?)
if he understood
how my inspiration
is all
derived
from stolen glimpses
of that
stupid smirk.

He would ****
his head -
say my name
(reproachfully?
regretfully?
desperately?)
if he could
feel
himself in
every word
I write.

Though I wonder
would the
disapproval
be for my feelings?
Or simply
for the way I
romanticize them?

You take pride
in the fact
that you
can make me
scream
your name.

I hate that.
I want to deny it
just to get rid
of that stupid smirk
and knowing gleam
in your eye.

Although
I suppose
the ecstasy
(which spawns
all my
inspiration)
our *** life
supplies me with
means I really
shouldn't complain.

You're just a little too
cocky
for my taste.

We were
together
once.
Bathed in
the silver light
of the moon
and the
star's
understanding shine.
Together
in a way
that,
lit by a
flickering
streetlamp
and reflections
in the asphalt,
would be
so seedy.

Thank God
We
aren't like that.

On a street corner?
Really.
Learn some
decency.

But as we pass
and the streetlamp
flickers
out of view -
I look into it's
false flame
and
for a moment
feel a star
die.

I need you tonight.
I need it.
To be wrapped
in your arms
entagled
in the most
comforting
of knots.
My head fitting
perfectly
in that spot
between your neck
and shoulder.

Just the right kind of
tiny,
your eyes smile.
Your hands
squeezing my sides
just because
you like the way I squeak
and giggle
and fuss.

That intimacy
I thought
would always
make me panic.
But somehow
your sighs
etched into
my skin
made it okay.

Do you still find
red hair
on your sheets?

I wish
it was still
mine.