Like candy fiz foam
sticky, sweet, and growing
As it tingles
all the way down
to dance like butterflies in my stomach
Zots feel like the small but budding excitement for new beginnings.
slide past one
like polar magnets
knowing too much
of the same thing
incapable of attraction
consistent, measurable avoidance
never once touching
I want to write about what hurts because I think it will
Stop me from hurting. If I put these words on
A page then they will be easier to digest.
Poetry isn't curative by creation, it is
Just confession. Still, these remedial
Lines are what I turn to when I am holding
Too much in my hands. Right now, I feel
Like I am overflowing onto the ground below me.
For the first time,
I don't want to write about what hurts. I want
To keep it inside of me and let it burn me. I want
To carry it in my palms for as long as I can.
I should write
About how we've said goodbye so
Many times that it turned into a threat, a weapon
We made with our tongues.
I should write
About how I lied and got away with it,
How you got caught with
Your hands tied and no one to blame.
I should write
About how it was over before we waved the white
Flag, and I know what it means now
To hold onto a sinking ship.
I've never had anything to die for.
I should write about how I've never wanted
Something so much that I devastated it completely.
We loved in harsh conditions, under sun and darkness and
I don't know how to write about how
The love didn't save us.
I don't write about letting go as much as I write about
Holding on, and I want
That to change.
I don't want to write hurt just to feel it.
The next poem I write about you will be
About me. About how I held on and how I let go.
It won't be about your love, it will be about
Mine. It won't stop me from hurting, but
It is how I make it out
Of my love alive.
The room in starlight bathed
My body unscathed
sheets are shores
Wash over me like the tide
for I don't sleep at night
where it always pours
on my cushion
following ancient lores
Diving deep to find
an Atlantis on my mind
til reaching the dream's source
Long distance calls
Looming nervous presence
The extra split second of suspense
waiting for fingers to be release
held captive by soda-stained keys
the familiar rhythm uncomfortably disturbed
The echoing strain,
as eyes feel the magnetic pull
towards an airplane TV
endlessly searching for dialogue gone MIA
Shredded fingers and cracked lips
wind-burned lungs and throbbing eardrums
the familiar ache
Peeling t-shirts off of backs
making sense of childhood love
soaking in tri-colored LEDs
Past stages feeling like distant memories
old therapy now feeling like a chore
memories linger out of habit instead of desire
assumptions of immaturity mask diluted longing
stringy hair from groping fingers
shattered nailbeds from shameful sabotage
magenta stains covering past identities
nighttime risks saturating your pace
silence fills your ear at night
isolation creaks around your fingers
slow beating heart serves as singular passage of time
as hot summer nights slowly tick by
The Sensations of Waiting