my love for him
is as delicious
as the burn
of your stubble
against my lower
lip

I have forgotten
the exact colour
of your irises

you have to forgive me
it's been a while
and I doubt
you can remember
the exact colour
of mine

I doubt
you can remember
much
of me
at all
but
what I do remember
more than I want to
much more than I want to

is
the way
my heartbeat sped up
when I felt your eyes on me

on the caller ID
my friend sitting next to me
told me to ignore it
to ignore you
like you ignored me
before you got bored
and crawled back
still managing to have
some sort of an upper hand

but my left thumb
seemed magically drawn
to that little blinking green phone
that was the symbol
of how irresitable I still find you  

and when I answered the phone
you greeted me
with a soft murmur of my name

I have never enjoyed hearing my name more

at about one am
i woke
and erased the poetry I had written
in the margins of my biology textbook

some original
some bukowski and yeats and mcdaniel
bukowski and yeats and
bukowski and yeats
bukowski and
bukowski

it vanished from view in the same manner
i think
as i vanished from your thoughts

i thought that We was an absolute
that We would never not exist

yet
i wrote it in pencil
in the first place

my darling
I want you to know that
had you offered me any kisses
no matter how tentative
I would have accepted them
in an instant
and cradled them
in my shaky palms

I have yet to make sense
of the muddled inks
that create your irises
A sort of a
composition
in chocolate
and oaky warmth

- not brown.

When searching
for a metaphor to describe you
the idea that circles back
and which I can not
nor will ever
be able to disregard
is that of an ice sculpture:
something for which you spend hours,
building up
only to watch it melt
helplessly
paralysed
I watched you
with her
helplessly
paralysed
I watched your temperature rise
and that husk around your heart
begin to thaw
like the way it did for me

And when I couldn't watch you anymore
when the pain became too great
that I had to deny myself
that pleasure of looking at you
with your chocolate composition
I turned away
and imagined you
imagining me

You are an ellipsis because you are possibility
You are plums stolen from the ice box
You are the forest, so lovely, dark and deep
You are the paragon of art
You, you talk like winter rain
You are like firm red grapes
like stretching
like that sunshine on winter mornings
but also like moonlight
in all its grace and purity and

love

you make me want to be a poet
if for reasons no more than wanting to impress you

They say that there is a place
on one's chest
that, when struck, stops the heart from beating