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Boaz Priestly Mar 16
time smiles upon me,
an after breakfast dessert delivered
with two spoons,
and that twinkle in your eye

comfortably nestled in this
moment of intimacy and what
promises to be an eventual domesticity

and i want to hold your hand so badly,
maybe brush our ankles together in
what could arguably be an accidental way,
lean a little more into you

i just want to see you smile,
again and again,
and it’s all the better if i’m the reason
behind that twinkle and flash of teeth

and i think then of a warm,
well-lit kitchen that we would share,
mugs, spoons, plates, bowls all lined
up where they should be,
side by side, just like us

the foundation for this life
we have the time,
the time we are careful to take,
to cultivate is something beautiful
that humbles me to behold
his maiden fair asks
that rugged and dusty cowboy
to be her sun,
and in turn he asks that
she be his moon

and those could almost
be vows, spoken in
the cool air of a little
desert church surrounded by
dry grasses and scotch broom

maybe they would be,
could be, just a little further
down the line

and the cowboy finds he likes
the thought of that mighty fine,
like peeling an orange and handing
every other segment to her while
the sunrise paints the sky above

and it’s the love in the little things
that keeps that cowboy
coming back with oranges in
his pockets and a promise
on the tip of his tongue
Boaz Priestly Feb 26
cowboy brings a poem
to the
gun fight

keeps a silver knife
with a chipped wooden
handle tucked under the
pillow on your side
of the bed

there are two places
set at this table,
faded tablecloth with the
circular coffee stains
and rips the cowboy
mended with those
steady hands of his

and in faded blue jeans,
scuffed boots left on
the welcome mat by the door,
he slices potatoes and carrots
for stew

hopes to warm those
darkest and coldest parts of
yourself that the sun still
doesn’t reach all
of the time

and maybe you’ll be
able to let him this time,
trust that he means only
to nourish your body and soul
that he knows
still shines
Boaz Priestly Feb 21
it’s like, because you think of me,
i am known
and because i am known,
i am loved

and i think about that at night
from time to time,
watching the moon high in
the sky, taking comfort in
the fact that miles away from me,
you’re under that same glow

i think about you when i
find myself down at the
waters edge, taking the stones
out of my pockets one by one,
and pulling my boots back on

and i want you to know,
if i could right now,
and if you’d have me,
i would fold up those miles
into a more manageable distance
and put them in my pockets
Boaz Priestly Feb 21
as a bard once more,
i make my way carefully down
the sandy dunes to
where the ocean laps hungrily
at the shore

sunlight catches the edge of
a finely crafted sword,
and i pick it up with the
memory of *** and stormy
seas on the tip of my tongue

and there is a ship waiting
for me, out past the breakers,
if i am willing to swim

and i find that i am,
breaking into a run
towards that beckoning water,
sword left in the sand to
mark where i once stood

and a ship so fine as this,
gifted to a humble bard,
and a pirate worth his salt,
where i will sail across every
sea and bring you home
rubies and soft fabrics
and so many stories

when the cowboy finds he
has grown tired of chasing
that horizon, i will
return to you

shedding the pirates long-coat,
bidding the bard and his bleeding
heart farewell, the cowboy rows
back to shore and welcomes
the feeling of that sandy shore
under his boots once more
haloed by the pale yellow glow
of a single street light,
crunch of gravel under well-worn,
well-loved, boots,
a lone cowboy boards
that lonesome city bus

pays the driver with a
slightly crumpled two dollar
bill, and a forget-me-not,
carefully preserved in plastic film

spurs jingle on the long
way to the back of the bus,
sinks down onto the seat and
wishes for a worn saddle instead

dead of night bleeds into
the rosy hues of dawn,
and still that cowboy rides,
unsure of a destination just yet

cowboy finds he misses
the west, all those rolling hills
and flat stretches of desert,
the feeling of your hand in his,
silence broken only by the baying
of far-off coyotes

and the cowboy exits the bus then,
tips his hat to the driver,
leaving the faint smell of sawdust,
and some of his heartbreak,
behind him

walks with purpose into
that rosy dawn,
your name on his lips,
and flowers held in
a steady hand
Boaz Priestly Jan 26
what’s the first rule
of fight club?
don’t tell that boy
with the long black hair
and green, green eyes
that you think he’s pretty

what’s the second rule
of fight club?
don’t tell that lady
with the lilacs braided
into her hair that you
want to hold her hand

and yeah, the rituals
are intricate, which you
know because you’re the
one that constructed them

this is a dance you know
all the steps to,
whether it’s with another's hands
on what’s left of your hips after
years on testosterone, or alone
in your kitchen with a
cheap bottle of wine

and it’s that skin on skin
that you’re after, willing to
get it through bloodied knuckles
and chipped teeth

if his hand is in your hair,
at least he’s touching you,
ya know

and if she hooks a single finger
through a belt loop to
pull you close, well,
then you’d follow her anywhere

you’re burning up the rules,
the carefully constructed rituals,
and the city along with it

you’re an inferno in the force
of your love that can’t
be put out
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