Most of us write
of how bitter
our first kisses
tasted

Mine
tasted like
a limited edition candy
found in an old candyshop
after three years

Like
exhaled smoke
of  your first
mentholated cigarrete

it tasted
like home
after years of
being lost

If I ever get addicted to cigarettes,
it will be because of you, Mike—
the screenwriter and smoker from Miami who I met
amidst the gentle crashing of the calm waves. It’s not
that I needed to smoke to accent the stars,
already so powerful in their summer sky without haze, but
I did need the smoke to accent you, Mike, to
hear about the time you climbed a mountain
where the air was so cold and the wind so fierce
that in your tent, your body created an atmosphere
dialectical in its warmth and surreal rain. When I
cough up phlegm in the morning, I’ll be thinking of you, Mike,
and as that brownish yellow glob slides
down the thin metal drain, I know I’ll think
that if I get addicted to cigarettes
because of you, Mike,
then it won’t be such a bad thing.

Is it possible to miss a persons chest?
The way it rises and falls with their breathing  and pulses with blood flow 

Letting you know they are alive, just as you are alive

And your timelines interconnect the way your breathing synchronizes 

You walk with your right foot forward and he trips over his foot to match your careful steps

You love to hear the rhythmic ebb and flow of whispered thoughts into your ear 

And on his chest your head is resting like the pillow you slept on last night except much more comfortable

The cold air outside gives him a chance to explore your arms and hands
and make you feel protected and loved
You feel home again even though the house you grew up in is only a block away

There’s this never ending warmth

That ignites your cold fingers with the heat of something more powerful than a comet

You do miss his chest

Your head-rest and peace

Of mind from this too-loud world

That doesn’t take a moment to hear a heartbeat

I want only an ounce of your attention, but a tonne of your love -
and that's the problem.

I sigh a lot,
and my tears taste like the ocean,
and I don't talk very loud,
and I stutter a little,
and I am not very pretty,
and I am constantly tripping over air,
but,
I could love you with every bit
of my Awkward Little Self
if you would just give me the chance.