#napkin
it feels dangerous to admit
the extent that i miss
my days ravaged by the lack
a touch on my back
your breath perfuming my neck
i miss the best of the bests
not the screaming
not the storms we endured
just the hummingbird heartbeat
get the napkins from the drawer
only we can know for sure
only we can hold our hands
only what fate has in store
only what the stars call for
Jan 23
Jan 23, 2026 at 3:19 PM UTC
Your moan is loud, I like that voice
You knew your fate, you had a choice
I see your back, it's kinda white
I'll clean it quickly. Done. Good night
Jun 28, 2025
Jun 28, 2025 at 5:52 AM UTC
In a field, with just you and me
with birds and bees
as far as one's eye can reach
So real yet a picture that haunts me
Stationary, yet you move me
So deep I stare into you
Hoping to be the ant at your feet
or maybe the tree you lean on
I put you up to my mouth with hands behind
So that you can touch my lips and i can hold your head
thank you for keeping me clean
Apr 23, 2025
Apr 23, 2025 at 7:00 PM UTC
"Sometimes the greatest ideas can be born out from an old crumbling napkin.."
Oct 15, 2021
Oct 15, 2021 at 4:06 AM UTC
She sets the dinner table
Sits down and places a napkin on her laps
Fills her wine glass and
With every sip of gasoline
She sparks a conversation
With the demons awakened
By the ruins of her childhood
©CathyDevan
Jul 19, 2021
Jul 19, 2021 at 11:56 AM UTC
This is not the kind of love I’d profess
on a hotel napkin
scream from the rooftops
of your parents’ house
10 dollars to stretch a month
of rendezvous
yes we live in a small town
but our minds fit here comfortably
however slightly,
I love you.
Jul 21, 2019
Jul 21, 2019 at 7:04 PM UTC
#
*It’s only a smudge in his eyes
A smear of lips on paper from skin
When apparent, meanings give rise
For it’s a lipstick kiss on a napkin
A longing for breathtaking kisses
She sends his way to imagine
of their lips in sensual caresses
with a simple kiss on a paper napkin*
#
Jul 3, 2019
Jul 3, 2019 at 10:55 AM UTC
...
i
am
that
roving
she dove
me
off an cliff
she spat
said
i
am
that
?
...
..
.
Jan 4, 2018
Jan 4, 2018 at 8:04 AM UTC
*A writer writes…
so that’s what I do.
Not that I must
But it’s the right thing to do.
It’s not always easy
to lay down a line
on a small scrap of paper
that’s so hard to find.
Expressive nouns and passionate verbs
they assault my brain and
take me away.
There’s no way to dictate them
out on a page.
So I write them all down
any place that I can.
While at the bar,
a napkin will do.
Or in my car,
a matchbook or two.
A Post-It will get me by
in a pinch.
Or any other paper
I’m happy to find.
And into my shoebox
I tucked them away.
I laid them right there
for another day.
Occasionally I’d come back
to see what they say.
Reading them over
again and again.
Into my brain,
that's where they have gone.
Stuck in my mind
for a decade or more.
The shoebox is gone now
from so long ago…but
the memories still linger
inside my brain and
out to my fingers
they continue to flow.
I write them all down
and expand on those thoughts.
Remembering the memories
I once thought were lost.
An explosion of words
pouring out on the page.
These many little thoughts they
now have a stage.
The lasting memories
are now down in print.
The shoebox is gone
but the words are in ink.*
Apr 27, 2017
Apr 27, 2017 at 8:06 PM UTC
on a napkin
in the fold
out of nowhere
written bold
on a napkin
soaked in pen
lost in wonder
wander in
on a napkin
plans and schemes
draw on dreaming
simple things
on a napkin
cloth and fading
all is forward
all are waiting
on a napkin
lost and found
almost forgotten
written down
Oct 24, 2016
Oct 24, 2016 at 5:57 PM UTC
i can't exist
yet here i sit
pondering and wondrous
drums pound and clang
my heart the same
perceptible, still undertrained
i cannot lie
but always try
plunging over, horrified
so here no more
and there not for
pejorative excelsior
I've written less
to curb excess
predominant post-modernists
Oct 12, 2016
Oct 12, 2016 at 2:30 PM UTC
we find ourselves crumpled like paper
my nosebleed acts like glue
you smell and taste like pixie dust
my eyes roll around the room
ascending towards heaven
i grip your ribs like handrails
you stop me short -
'i'm going to...'
and like a napkin under the dinner table
i’m falling off your lap
you'll remember me when you need to clean up
when you need to wipe your hands
May 5, 2016
May 5, 2016 at 11:55 AM UTC
The palms of my hands
Haven't forgot your touch
Your laughter still rings
Gentle echos in my mind
The look in your eyes
When I catch you looking
I look forward to
Creating those moments again
May 4, 2016
May 4, 2016 at 2:47 PM UTC
*I wrote a perfect poem once. I scribbled it down on the back of a half used napkin. It wasn't short and is wasn't long. The lipstick laced food marks couldn't taint what was already perfect. There was no love and no sadness in the words. It embodied only emptiness - it's most pure form. Nothing left wanting, no thirst unquenched.
In a moment of clear sight, I knew only the right words were forming. In that moment the half empty bar around me sunk, drowned, imploded and combusted - for all I cared. I had just written a masterpiece.*
Dec 16, 2015
Dec 16, 2015 at 12:38 PM UTC
I saw what's a writtters block
words accummulated
on a bubble
in complete disorder
big smalll and all kindsofonts
like a back pain
or a sore tooothh
trying to go thrugh a funnell
with no musik to push them through
there are no imaginary worlds
it is all real
Aug 21, 2014
Aug 21, 2014 at 12:30 AM UTC