Submit your work, meet writers and drop the ads. Become a member
Madly-
I am missing you:
As surely as the meadow covets the soft embrace
of morning dew;
as sure as the sky slowly awakens its canvas
to the suns soft stroke of salmon pinks
and crimson reds, light magenta's, oranges,
amber's, and pale silk Persian blues.
In these moments of absence, I am,
in more than one way,
completely enraptured by the thought of you.
Your loveliness, your smile, your kiss,
your magnificently adorned brown bluish green speckled eyes,
undulate in my thoughts brightly like moonlit folds
of surf crashing into the core of me:
slowly soaking through the sandy shores
of my equally undulant, brisk, and fluttering heart.
Then, as an off shore breeze crosses tenderly about
my waist and fingertips, seductively enveloping me,
I am reminded of how closely we laid:
Tangled beneath our blanket of fervor,
side by side, with a mutual breath of passion
as excitement cascaded through our paralleled sensoriums
and quickly translated into a fiery touch of the lips,
as a fervid scratch of the hips,
and finally into a shared exhale of relief
as if to whisper to one another “come closer, be mine.”
Still, even as these grains of memories feather effortlessly
down into my thoughts like the sands of an endless hourglass
encased with the echo of your inviting voice
enchanting me with sweet nothings,
I am left with a yearning for your physical presence.
I want you here.
Time inches along and as I slowly lie my head down to sleep,
hands clasped shut between pillow and ear,
I am, in my thoughts again, reminded of your ubiquity,
of your enamoring effect on me,
of how no matter the distance nor the time between,
baby you are here, captivating my thoughts
-madly.
 Apr 2013 Lexie Hall
Andrea Lopez
There are so many colors in a crayon box.
Everyone has their favorite.
Mine just happens to be you.

You're the pink to my hearts that overfill the page with your name written inside.
You're the blue to the tear on my stick figures that I draw every time we say goodbye.
You're the red to the fire I doodle when ever I remember our last kiss.
You're the yellow I shade in the smiley faces as you make me grin.
Your're the green to the color of nature, that has a beauty so very close to yours.
You're the orange that shows our warm hugs like the suns light reflects the sea shores.
You're the purple when we're apart, there's loyalty there that I trust with all my heart.
You're the black to my night sky, surrounded by the twinkling stars of our outrageous memories.
You're the white to heaven's clouds, and its not as far as it seems, i'm there whenever you're with me

But most of all,
You are my personal color.
A color no one could use or borrow
I'll use you yesterday, today, and tomorrow
And never get old.

In a sixty-four pack box,
You are my crayon.
I want to go somewhere far
Somewhere calm,
Somewhere now.

I want to escape
from reality
from you
and from me

And just lay there,
eyes closed
quiet sound
and the wind
blowing against me.

Is it too hard?
just to escape
leave everything
so far away.

Then,
I suddenly find it,
peace and quiet.
Is this reality?
I am happy.

but then I see,
it was all a dream,
I am still here
In this house full of tears.

All that is left,
a memory held,
the tear stains
and the scars that remain.
This is my very first poem, and my first lenguage is not English, so be kind :)
They say you hurt
The ones you love
The most.
I wonder how true
That must be.

I can't even bear to think
Of hurting you.
Yet you give out hurt
Like its a hobby.

With all the pain
You've put me through
You must love me
More than I could ever
Love you.
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.

— The End —