i am a terrible poet.
the words i tied together in attempt
to annunciate
the way your kisses felt
along the soft of my
cheeks were
mediocre and just barely enough.
just barely.
there weren't enough ways that i could describe
the mouthful
of stars that spilled at the seams of my
lips as you gently traced them with warm finger tips.
mm, your finger tips.
your finger tips felt like a personal extension from god himself as
they dusted the empty jars i left untouched
in the forgotten spaces of me.
you held them tightly and filled them to the top
with a breathful of morning secrets
and hidden places to meet.
i found you.
i found you and allowed the words to slip
through my small hands
as you kissed my palms gently and sweetly
and folded them into your own to keep for just a little bit.
(
i could stay here)
i could lay underneath your tired smiles
and messy hair
until stars realigned themselves and directed
me to you all over again.
(
i could stay here)
i could tangle in-between your pale sheets
and make up all the words that
effortlessly translate the way i melted and simmered
at the sheer thought of waking up and knowing you again.
i could illustrate all of the galaxies you whispered
onto the trail of my back with
colors and warmth i never knew
and turn them into poorly strung together,
black and white strings of thought.
you were my favorite secret
and the cause of all of my writer’s block.
(i could stay here)
i’ve lived in florida my entire life
and have spent more days than i can count
under the sun and in the wake of rays that always burned,
but i’ve never felt more warmth than lying underneath
your expired thoughts and eclipsing eyes
as the moon seeped through your broken window blinds.
i forgot what it was like to breathe
until you took my face
sweetly and sincerely
and kissed me.
the paragraphs and ellipses that perforated my parenthetical
sighs of relief
stained the corners of my mouth
and lingered
long enough for me to remember
the after taste of your recycled sunshine
as you left me.
i am a terrible poet,
but a better kept secret it seems.
Apr 24, 2014
Apr 24, 2014 at 2:56 PM UTC
i am a terrible poet.
the words i tied together in attempt
to annunciate
the way your kisses felt
along the soft of my
cheeks were
mediocre and just barely enough.
just barely.
there weren't enough ways that i could describe
the mouthful
of stars that spilled at the seams of my
lips as you gently traced them with warm finger tips.
mm, your finger tips.
your finger tips felt like a personal extension from god himself as
they dusted the empty jars i left untouched
in the forgotten spaces of me.
you held them tightly and filled them to the top
with a breathful of morning secrets
and hidden places to meet.
i found you.
i found you and allowed the words to slip
through my small hands
as you kissed my palms gently and sweetly
and folded them into your own to keep for just a little bit.
(
i could stay here)
i could lay underneath your tired smiles
and messy hair
until stars realigned themselves and directed
me to you all over again.
(
i could stay here)
i could tangle in-between your pale sheets
and make up all the words that
effortlessly translate the way i melted and simmered
at the sheer thought of waking up and knowing you again.
i could illustrate all of the galaxies you whispered
onto the trail of my back with
colors and warmth i never knew
and turn them into poorly strung together,
black and white strings of thought.
you were my favorite secret
and the cause of all of my writer’s block.
(i could stay here)
i’ve lived in florida my entire life
and have spent more days than i can count
under the sun and in the wake of rays that always burned,
but i’ve never felt more warmth than lying underneath
your expired thoughts and eclipsing eyes
as the moon seeped through your broken window blinds.
i forgot what it was like to breathe
until you took my face
sweetly and sincerely
and kissed me.
the paragraphs and ellipses that perforated my parenthetical
sighs of relief
stained the corners of my mouth
and lingered
long enough for me to remember
the after taste of your recycled sunshine
as you left me.
i am a terrible poet,
but a better kept secret it seems.
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