It's interesting how when the smell of your tshirt mingles
with the scent of the cinnamon bread you made me,
I feel you next to me.
As if while you baked it, you infused it with yourself,
only released with heat, and the memories it brings about.
Because it all comes back to that shirt, the fabric to bridge the gap,
the fragrance of your body that I only notice when you're gone.
It must be the reason for how, when I lay down in your shirt,
in my bed where we were, the smell of your body
that only makes me smile while awake
brings you to me when I sleep,
making me question conversations we've had,
if they happened outside of pure imagination.
And even in my mind I can feel your warmth,
my hand lacing with yours above your head,
every part of our bodies fitting together like the most
intricate of puzzle pieces.
Every touch is reminiscent of a dancer's embrace,
and dancing has given us intimate knowledge of each others
body, but something unseen gives us
greater understanding of the rest.
So when we're close we don't talk, we don't need to.
No words can be exchanged that we don't already know,
that we don't already feel,
that haven't already been said across 90 miles.
It's a large span, yet we could build a bridge,
connect ourselves,
with the things we've said in spite of it,
the conversations that spur small visits and make it all bearable.
And each declaration brings you closer, so when I close my eyes
my head finds your shoulder.
My hips find your hips,
my love wraps yours like a ring wraps my finger
if just for a night, if just for a moment,
if only in my mind.

Growing up I discovered that it is innate
In human nature
To find, seek, or beg for affection.
I stayed silent in order to watch those around me:
Some were good at capturing attention
Like on a warm summer night
And children and running around with glass jars
Procuring fireflies that shine like precious gems.
These children had the talent of keeping the fireflies
Dazzling for days.
Some sought after the coveted attention,
With their baited fishing poles in hand,
They patiently waited in the middle of the lake
And held onto their prize when caught
Until it died when they would go and fish for a new one.
Perhaps a longer, bigger, heavier, more valuable catch.
Some are light, ethereal,
Like a subtle perfume you can only smell
When you are mere inches away from the wearer.
They are sweet and not too persistent in their ways.
I continued to watch
And place people in these categories.
What they all in common, though,
Was selling their precious:
The fireflies, the fish, the perfume.
I looked to myself,
What did I have to sell? To offer?
Anything at all?
Surely I wasn’t as skilled as the lightning bug trapper
Or as patient as the fisherman
Or as fragrant as the perfume-wearer.
Instead, I was the girl
Who would admire the stars for all they are,
But not try to keep one;
Who would live in the now
Rather than feebly attempting to move my watch
Back a few years.
It was then I realized,
My love is not for sale.

Let me start with a cliche: I love to write.
Let me edit it: I love writing
Lying on the floor
Truths in my head
Think
Of me
Baggy Pajama Pants

Personals:*
Single Man Interested in Women: Looking for love.
Single Woman Interested in Men: Looking for love.
Single Man Interested in Men: Looking for love.
Single Woman Interested in Women: Looking for love.
Single God Interested in Humans: Looking for them to love and be loved.*
___________________­

I'll freestyle this,
As is done the love on my lips.
There's too much that the human mind,
Leaves tightly capped inside.
Every pressure of this universe,
Laced upon a scripted source; of negativity.
It's all too real to me, I'm blind.
But as a mother once said,
There's more than tears to shed or eyes to cry.
But look instead, in the love soaked parts of our minds.
Expel all you can that's captured there,
Expose yourself completely bare and let them see,
Through all this you'll survive...