i think it’s ‘cause
i’ve never had
a boy to call my own
no whispered names, no midnight texts
no ache i’ve ever known
maybe that’s why i can’t quite grasp
why beautiful girls stay
my little sister and dearest friends
when what they call “love”
turns dull and gray
he speaks in thorns
not petals soft
and yet they hold on tight.
is it fear of being all alone
or hope that he’ll make it right?
and here i am
untouched by blinding love
can only stand and see
how strange it is to love someone
when they bring you only harm.

I am older now,
And we've been together
For decades now,
So I don't pretend
To remember
Our first kiss, now.
Anyhow,
It's sensations are still with me.
That kiss was a sentence.
Anywho, or, Anywhom,
What's more important,
Is...
I don't foresee
Our last
Anytime soon.

She doesn't wear vanilla dresses,
Ethereal shoes and a mint beret.
She doesn't accept gluey embraces
And kisses, where the truth is away.

She doesn't like stuffy speeches
About the Moon and stars at her feet.
She doesn't need a fiery chatter,
If there is a hollow behind it.

No use to disturb the Sun in vain
And lead it to shine only for her.
In fact all your cries are trait falsehood.
No need to be so low-lived amateur.

The sea throws a foam right at her feet.
Sea waves are noisy and bold.
Her ear's softly caressed by seagulls.
These birds are the peerless sea gold.

Her clothes are surely relaxed fitting,
And so it has always been.
The wind in her face, unfastened hair,
And he's nearby - it's the ultimate thing.

I place my hand on your shoulders.
They snap together
like an old-fashioned clothespin
on my grandmother’s clothesline.

I intruded upon your space.  
I arrived at a place
that enveloped you
in personal cellophane.

You don't touch.
You won't be touched.  
What pleasures you miss, such as,
feeling the roughness of a wrinkled ear.

You fail to feel a touch
as a finger glides along your cheek,
moving with a tenderness
that surpasses any kiss.

Frigid fear confines you,
isolating you from the human touch
that caresses and warms the soul.

You navigate life
like an unrefined stone
resting among precious gems,
made luminous by countless rubs.

The sincere loving melodies
Of her exotic kisses like
evening rain upon flowers

Reynaldo Casison

My sweet treat of choice,
Was a nice ice coffee.

But now nothing compares,
To the Cup o' Joe shade of your hair,
And the sugary taste of your lipstick.

another night’s ocean liner passage, now
sunrise bookmarked, by prayer hailed,
when wet cheeks express emotional
humanity and a tissue better be handy

too many times this is how the day
greets me, and I, it, wetted and vetted
to have made it as far as one more,
having lived you in me, me in you,
an exchange of tonguing word
kisses,
that break me into pieces of
consolations

it’s embarrassing an elder man
weeps for no reason other than
words have swept him overboard,
crazy love this fascinating addiction
to a new morning’s addition  composition
incision on a plain soul indistinguishable
amidst the mist of millions of others
who rise up beside, aside, reside within
and his breached heart, even strangers,
complete the neuronal connection
that demands his years of years upon
awaking to the grinning fawning dawn
mooning him with pure white light that
wrecks him open, rents his disposition,
an inquisition of words intrusively intruding
causing wept tears fully formed energizing
emerging, songs of words that you give
him as a question to be loved, for finding
the answers multiple is a penultimate thrill,
confirming this wetness that he lives to
be loved, give love, and breaks h a p p i l y
into pieces of/if contented peace

and thus summed, the day’s obligations
seem less daunting, and with some
luck and bulk coffee ingestion, there
will be solutions to anything
and then
he types,

and this one,
done!
<>
6:49am
march 2 Sun Day
two zero two 5

I never told you
I don’t like the cigarette smoke
But bitter kisses taste better than ghosts