Strip me down
To my rawest form.
To my browns and oranges.
A copper silhouette.
Peel me away
Till I’m standing there
With averted gaze.
Leave me bare
With no recipe.
Strip me down
Lose all my layers, till I’m
Just a component.
Make me an idea,
In its first happening.
A dream yet to be realised.
Look at me,
In my essence,
Am I good?
There is a place for us
That no one else can enter
It is a place that holds no secrets
Only beauty, peace & understanding
A place that we come to
Believing we are one
Yearning to have our souls
Fused together for a moment
And in that moment;
I know you
And I love you more
I feel myself laid bare before you
And I feel content
Joyous that you are with me
Loving me in my nakedness
Never will our hands meet
Bare skin on bare skin
Never will our lips meet
Our love formed over early morning texts and late night calls
Never will our eyes meet through anything more than a phone screen
Speaking of meeting brings disappointment
Hating every inch in between us
Jealous of all close to the other
Let me see your soul.
Bare all your scars to me.
All that pains you.
All that burdens you.
All that gives you joy.
I will cup your mechanical heart.
Feel its beat, and oil the gears.
No longer will it be the frost of
But as polished as
Sometimes my mask slips.
You can catch me off guard
and shine light onto parts of my soul
that I thought only I could see.
You might expect the reaction to be groggy;
Dusty after so many years of being hidden.
But I take in that light like air - necessary,
staring straight into the possibility of a kindred spirit.
It happened once. And that tiny breathe of air,
so innocuous, sent me spinning and
started a hurricane. Part of you resonated with me.
Your truth had the exact same heat of mine.
The same forest wood feeding the flames.
Except you elaborated, and I realised that we
were entirely different wildflowers,
in the same bunch but mismatched from root to petal -
Just grown in the same decrepit soil.
It felt like you had comforted me by wrapping
a soft woolen blanket around my shoulders.
I am allergic to wool, and all it does is burn.
Darkness, again. Yet,
I remember you at times, Ky. When the world feels
so dry it seems nothing will grow,
I remember that you sprouted in the weeds, too.
It started with a few strokes,
a pointed charcoal,
pulsed...led by the
thumb and index finger, that
initiated a sway of arcs, the contours
of boyish hair, clinging to the nape
a few short strands on a not so wide
very near...........a pair of
not so bushy eyebrows, under which
almond-shaped, brown eyes.
then...followed gentle strokes
of perfect highs and lows
hills, valleys, and softened arcs
shaped and manifested character-
high cheekbones....a pointed,
but softened chin,
suddenly, i was
index finger covered tip, to help
define jaws....then slid down lower,
propped up by
a shallow clavicle
and gently shaped shoulders,
that fool judging eyes and minds
they seem small, and weak
and fragile, but, they can carry
tons of worries...determinedly.
fingers angled, pencil tip slowly
danced...in careful strokes,
and curved lines,
'tween two heavenly mountains,
with pinkish brown crowns
conspicuously tensed at the tops...
pencil moved decidedly....so sure...but,
slow in shaping waist...then curved
on rounded hips..sliding inwards
to the front.....to a central point,
essential, fundamental, umbilical.
its surroundings raised, as if to protect
a knotted cord...filled with stories...closed,
atop a slightly fleshy belly...
from there, a short distance downward,
led to a hidden flower
the reason...a cradle...a port,
covered by a triangular shield,
squeezed in between
chubby thighs and legs.
lines went lower, narrower...
shaped a pair of fair feet,
with painted toes
a bare maiden
Copyright July 30, 2017
Rosalia Rosario A. Bayan
The band was exhausted,
Fall down tired and sweat happy.
But still on track,
Eye flirting and sending secret messages
To every girl they coaxed up
Onto the sandy wood plank dance floor,
But after six hours and 100 songs.
And now at 2:30 a.m. and the lights all up
A bit too drunk,
And way too tired to search out the tempo of the blues,
Buddha on his toadstool,
His shirt soaked with rhythm and stained dark green
From a steady sweat,
His boot, a robot after all these years,
Still tapped the bass drum lightly
As he dreamt of pizza,
Pizza in bed served by naked twenty somethings,
Who don't believe love has to hurt.
They, Bill and Sheila,the music gone
Continued to slow dance,
The beat replaced by the random tinkle of shot glasses
Loaded by hand onto the top shelf
Of the dishwasher...
And to the scratch
Of the one armed bus boy with a push broom but no deadline.
The full moon had finally risen out of the sea,
Or was it the sun too tired to shine and begging for a day off.
Her arms were a tight hoop around his neck,
She knew how to hang onto love,
Her cheek to his chest, to his heart.
She'd kicked off her sandals and stepped onto his boots,
Her full weight a reminder that they weren't dead yet.
He'd always known how to lead and carried her with ease.
'Is this the end', Sheila asked him
And looked around at the nearly empty room,
'Not as long as we keep dancing' he said
And kissed her with a full tongue.
Which mask should I wear today?
No one can handle seeing the bare, naked me,
so I created a closet filled with masks.
One for every mood expected of me.
So which one is it?
The happy, loving one?
The sad one?
The supporting one?
The angry one?
Please don't catch me off guard. I want to keep you.
I can't possibly, ever, bear
they see their minds, professional
I see their ribs' insides
or maybe not,
harsh reality is, they breathe
sadly, they must for some reason have mediocre lungs
or what they convince themselves a bliss
they're good with just a bit over average
sting like bees
drop dead at a few interruptions
at the first sneeze
so their ribs aren't bare of lungs
but their ribs bear no heart
their lungs counting..
but I must owe one thing to them
that being their bewildering creativity
you must have a certain level of creativity
to take our beautifully fractured
minds and souls
and turn them into computers
priced with silver coins and gold
rated by a paycheck
or a post
a program hates a mess
it's mindlessly counting
moving in a sequence of steps
and it hates interruption
counting through stories
while they're still young enough to write more
but no, again, they're so clever
they prefer a story told
over a story lived bold
saving their memories
in a gallery on their phones
they look at them like achievements
for fuck's sake they'd rather define themselves
over what they've made of their bones
how many smiles they've had
how many times tears
their eyes have shed
how many breaths they have taken
instead of how many times
beauty took their breaths
a heart is a waste in a cage like theirs
it's a bird designed to flutter
to this day imprisoned
because they think that's clever
they're souls without souls
a heart is a waste
and so is their balls
why would they let their hearts
die in their nests
for all I know
their pair should've been traded
for delicate beautiful breasts