My lover asks me:
"What is the difference between me and the sky?"
The difference, my love,
Is that when you laugh,
I forget about the sky.

I fall in love quite
frequently, in glances with
those I’ll never know.

To exchange awkward
advances while predicting
this too will plateau

He showed up with flowers I didn't deserve.
My hair uncontrollable and my dress to short.
He said my name but it held no meaning in his mouth,
spit out without savouring.
I didn't know what to say when he expressed my beauty.

To much wine can make me bold.
Mouth has no filter,
cheeks flushed pink and my smile to free.
My laughter bursting brightly.
I began to notice his smile,
the silkiness of his voice.

He took my hand in his and there was no spark,
no strangled butterflies.
I fumbled awkwardly and he stared to hard.
Eyes unreadable and yet I already knew.

He asked to come in and it hit me,
that I was tired of dreaming of you at my window,
I'm always sitting on the edge of sorrow.

He kissed me so deeply that it's amazing he didn't steal my breath.

******* me with eager hands,
his lips lost on skin.
Eyes closed tightly,
I embrace the moment of letting someone in.
To rough and undeserving,
no emotion,
just need.

I lay, The curves of my body fitting perfectly within yours. No space,
Just a loving embrace,
back pressed to your chest.

I always crave to belong to you.

My body remembering traces of moments, Moments I'd pause and find sanctuary in.

If it is but a small frame of time that I can tuck away in my pocket, Keep it close to me always.

My eyes are clouded for my reality is like yours, Only one perspective. I breathe you in, Like I've done so many times before.

It's not the rain
that makes my eyes wet.
It hasn't rained in forty days.
Nights are long and quiet.
The silence cuts to bone.

It wasn't rain that quenched the fire.
It hasn't rained in forty nights.
The well is dry... so am I.
Nights I sit in silence
while it rains.

r ~ 4/19/14

Don't ever fall in love with a poet
because they will indeed admire and watch your every move
they will write about how the pen marks on the side of your palm when you write
don't ever because they will trace
every single freckle you have on your face and
write about the color of each and every one of them and
describe how they smile so brightly under the sunlight
they will want you to want to know every little thing about them
even if it's just what hand they write with and want you
to be wondering why they write with that specific hand when in
reality it doesn't even matter

the poet will watch the way you dig
your eyes onto that book and your small quick remarks onto the 26 letters all crumpled together and will know that everyday at 5:28 p.m. you smile

they will look deeply into your eyes
to see if they can at least take a little
peak of your soul and they will write
about you like if you were the only
thing they see good in this world

they will want to know what you think
about when you look at them and
see if you also count each and
every freckle and hope and write  
that you do but they will
love you endlessly and they will
show you that they love you and only you

but don't date a poet if you aren't
capable to watch them and
admire their imperfections
when they sleep late at night
beside you.

j.f