I could drown in your kiss.
But maybe drown is the wrong word.
The word “drown” makes my lungs feel constricted.
It makes my skin feel pressured.
It kicks in my survival instincts.

I could live in your kiss.
It is like breathing, but better.
It is like I am floating aimlessly in space and your lips are my spacesuit,
sustaining my life for another orbit.

Your hands grab my hips and pull them closer to you.
I want to gasp but my mouth is preoccupied,
as you can tell.
I am lost in your body, in your tongue, in your hands.
I am never to be found.

This is what it feels like after one drowns.
A beautiful abyss.

I long to feel your childish, unseductive touch.

The feeling of your disinterest in a state of arousal is that of a crime scene.
You investigate me with cold, unfeeling eyes
and your hands are all the worse.

The music you insist on playing is unsensual
and distracting
but you say it gives you something to do
while you’re ******* me.

Your youthful face does not even contort in pleasure,
my name never passes your lips,
yet I need more of you.

I try not to finish in your allotted time period
so I can keep you close
for as long as possible.

But your lack of eroticism gets to me
and I explode.
You dress and leave
without so much as a “good-bye.”

Maybe next time you will smile.

I wish, I wish upon a star
That I could count the stars
But the universe ends too far
and I am far too small
to ever be regarded by a star
But still, I try.
Endless nights
staring up at those faraway lights.
Each one I count and mark
though the tallies are hidden in the dark.
I wish, I wish upon a star.

the calm and the clear
and the soft skin
the sun shining through the curtains
highlighting exposed skin
eyes still closed
held in embrace
slow hands across one's back
lightly
as if made of ceramic
a deep breath
heaving chest
exhale

Perhaps, in fear,
I had let go-
I could not forever wander.
I could not see
the ending road,
so my mind did wonder.

What fantasies do lie ahead?
What nightmares lurk in darkness?
So I turned home instead,
as uncertainty held no interest.

I want to
punch.

Punch windows
and walls.

Bleed everywhere.

And call it art.

A tribute
of my love.
An unrequited throne
of my insides.

Then he can burn it
like he burns
everything I feel.

And the ashes
would be more beautiful
than what I made
because he did it.

I was young
and you gave me words
and thoughts
and entertaining plots.
I spent so much time
looking at the way you write
and looking at the way you phrase
and wishing I could do the same.

Now I have my own phrases
and plots
and thoughts.
All because you planted want.