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R Amber Jul 4
i lay on her *****
and there, i weep.
and she lets me, she lets me
entangle myself in sorrow
and a depression too mild
to be called depression.
but i still lay on her *****
and there, i dream.
and she lets me, she lets me
snore my way to an unbroken
peace--a sweet, valid release.

she kisses the crown
of my silly, silly head.
and i am home, i am home
in spite of all things
thrown at me. and i kiss her
jaw and neck, and i let her
kiss my cheek, my elbow,
my mouth, bones, heart.
and she's everywhere, and i am
nowhere, nothing, but everything
in her ravenous hands.
R Amber Jul 4
the thing about poetry
is that it's loose like sand.
it slips between fingers
and finds its way everywhere
like the words that seem to ebb
and flow into and out of me,
like the sea of which the sand
shares companionship. you
can't quite contain all that
matter. all that matters you
can't quite contain. the thing

about poetry is that it makes me
feel, even when feeling feels empty
or wrong or redundant or gross and
it really does make me think
that you can't contain and define
all that is there to be said about
poetry. poems are significant
in that they can be insignificant
and again, loose and ubiquitous
like sand. small particles, so tiny
and numerous they matter so much.

and the thing about me is
that i am small but not
ubiquitous. i am not god who
is omnipresent. i am not sand
who sticks its nose into every
single thing and leaves a memory
of sea and space. i am tiny
and forgettable. but in this poem
i see myself, my reflection of which
leaves me until i reach out and it says,
"you are poetry itself."
R Amber Jul 3
it's too early to be
thinking so much, feeling
like my thoughts need to be
herded around. and i am
singling out some of them
who've been misbehaving
and i am shouting at them,
screaming, "it is too early
to be a black sheep."

it's 4:32 am, and i am awake.
what for? i ask myself. ah, i needed
a bathroom break, like i always
need a break in life. but to be
frank, life has been great and
life has been good and i am
hoping i too am good
and will someday be
great.

but the thing is, my thoughts
are often precariously swinging
from danger to safety, and
it can be such a sight
to behold, my heart
in my throat, my mind
yelling at me to get it
together. get them
together. my thoughts--

they spin
uncontrollably, like a top
that falls to the ground and cracks
a bit, tiny fragile pieces
swept under the rug.
and my life has never been
better. my thoughts have never been
cleaner, despite the need
to be collected all the time.
R Amber Jun 30
i hold you in my arms
and it hurts because
you are the sun

and you hold my heart in yours
and it hurts me because
you squeeze it so tight

my lover, my dear,
my loveliest song,
you are the lullaby i long for
when i can't sleep at night

but you hold me
unlike i hold you
and you hold me
too harshly

you are my lullaby
and i am a strum
of an electric guitar
evoking a singular emotion

that you can't somehow keep
R Amber Jun 30
i spend the afternoon, gently
weaving a conversation
about myself into
the hands of my mother
who shoos me away, leaving,
going, turning away after
i ask her,
"how would you react
if i were gay?"
and i am gay

and well, there could have been
worse outcomes, an aftermath
that could have broken me
further
but the silence
was deafening
and i could not cover my ears
but my mouth was zipped
shut, no words; and my mom
threw away the key

we let the night
pass by like a ghost
and the next day, the sun
was rebirthed; my mom
slips me the key
to my mouth
and i unzip it
but it continues
to be silent
with my voice kept unheard
R Amber Jun 27
I want to be
the roaring sun
an angry star
a ferocious need, to blaze a path
forward and beyond, dreams
exposed to light and heat
the days no longer
a haze in the night, misty
from a fresh downpour

But I also crave
a soothing touch, a gentle reprieve
a song quietly sung as I
rise and rise and rise
my face bright but kind
my face in yours
my face which is
yours -- like how the stars
belong to the sky
R Amber May 2019
he is the moon that shines down on me when i'm lost in the labyrinth of a cornfield at one in the morning

and he is the sun that peeks behind the clouds after a misty afternoon spent studying at the local library

he is the sand that shifts under the sea in the wake of a creature rising up from a good afternoon slumber

and he is the sky that envelopes the world in a palette of colors that reminds us of the passage of time and time again

he is a house built on love and passion with pillars that shake but never break as the earth falters and cries

and he is the horizon that paints my perspective a burning flame the intensity of a wildfire nobody in the vicinity foretold

he is the breeze that greets me on the balcony as i laugh with strangers that assure me i am doing just fine

and he is the moment of being half-asleep when i mumble my words in response to my mother who kisses my cheek

he is the lexicon of forbidden words that i store behind the door at the back of my heart which beats once in a while

and he is the silence that infiltrates the damp mood but also gives me a draft on which i ink the first beats of a song
inspired by yuzuru hanyu
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