you
and i are more

alike than we think.
but

you experienced so much
excitement
at my age, so

perhaps i'm destined
to have
mine

at yours.

Sweetheart,
if you saw my blood pour out
onto paper, you wouldn't want it

anymore.

Why must I feel more passion
for missed opportunities than
for the continuous love

flowing at my feet?

I am both overflowing
and desperately dry.

You scribble yourself
on scraps of me.

You scatter them around
your room, wallet, shoes.

And this is love,
we are certain.

You deserve more
than this oddly-
shaped heart.

My heart fills with you
then is rung out, and
left to dry.

Wrestle me well, my love,
     For we were star-crossed enemies,
          And I miss you.

My shoulders miss your caring arms,
My lips crave your pale-red tongue,
     A slice of refreshment, watermelon,
My chest searches the rise of your chest,
And my torso longs only, and is only,
     For your leg locks.

     Grapple me and my lightweight heart,
     As the backbone of this world breaks,
     As the sun sinks into final submission,
          But I will never tap on this love out.

               Never.*

© 2017 J.S.P.

Do not forsake me the need to ascend.
We, in our platinum form
Do not require mothers, teachers, peers to remind us that one day the red soils will be left bereft of us.
We don’t require reminding.
Look down at yourself and consider your own outline.
We are shaped just so our eyes can compile us as human –
but not so that we require shaping still.
In the end, you can simplify.
Simplify yourself down. Until you are just circles, squares.
What is special about your own edge?
A human line, a form so easily replicated
It can be done by children in crayon.
A human line.
Allow yourself to ascend to your platinum form.

The rain fell hard, spitting
on the hallowed granite wall.
It fell on her too, sitting
in her fatal fetal sprawl.

Her coat was torn, and her head hung low;
the rain stung her knees and eyes.
“What a surprise…” she whispered, slow
in her speech and ashen in her guise.

“I didn’t think I’d find your name…”
Her voice broke, though none can know
whether from pride or from shame.
“I guess you listened, when they told you to go.”

“You idiot! When you’re done, find
me. That’s what I said to-”
Another break; her throat constricted.
She barely breathed, “Why me? Why you?”

“I’m sorry,” she whispers.
“They sent you, but it’s all my fault.”
The rain reaches her lips, then,
yet those drops taste of salt.