He sat watching as the love dripped out of her,
like broth dribbling off the spoon back into the bowl;
each drop of pho causing ripples of warmth.

He wished to plunge deep inside of her soul,
to penetrate her mind and pause briefly, but
long enough to see how much love remained.

He watched as her hands became a swarm of bees,
her brown eyes turning to fire as she spoke,
and in this moment she was still beautiful.

His heart writhed while slowly realizing that,
it doesn't matter how much you love someone.
Sometimes love just isn't nearly enough.

i saw you the way an artist does
brilliant and bathed in holy fire
your scars
the strokes of a brush
your anatomy every medium
your smile
a photograph in
black and white
your lips
oil on canvas
your eyes
watercolor on paper
your hair
texture and dimension
on a portrait
you and i
an unfinished graffiti
an unorthodox art form
fleeting and reflective
but a masterpiece
nonetheless

My fingers itch to coast along your sensitive tips
Each sigh and tremor enough to make me remember
What spring sunlight feels like
After a long, dark winter

December's child
with fire you were forged
your eyes are liquid amber poured
always I dream to kiss
your perfect lips divinely cast
the sweetness of your breath
the warmth that moves across my flesh
your hands and arms are sculpted bronze museum art
indelibly in mind when you are far
the hot of your delicious mouth
traveling gently, slowly south.

I behold the
promises as
your lips curve
for a kiss.

And watch it
die
as your lips too
shut satisfied.

I am only a wine
you long for
when your heat is
uncontrollable.

But I will let you,
always,
to drink me.

After all,
I am a finest wine,
fermented with
years of  broken promises.

- qyf

It's always been difficult,
for me to communicate.
Friends, family, whomever,
I can't always express what I want,
or how I would want to.
I'll sit stern and stoic,
and tell all the people I know that,
I am fine.
Than I go home,
and between choking sobs explain to the dog,
or the cat,
what it is that ails me so.
The dog just stares,
the cat just purrs,
but I find more solace in that,
than the words of anyone I know.
Is that so strange?

You made a poet fall in love with you
And expected her not to write sonnets about your eyes
Haikus about the way you kissed her in the moonlight
Expected the fire in her heart not to inspire couplets
You made a poet fall in love with you, and when you left
Expected her not to write pages about the ache in her chest
Write a soliloquy dedicated to her tears
Expected her not to feel every gut wrenching moment of the pen hitting paper like your words hit her in the most vulnerable places of her mind.
You made a poet fall in love with you, and you expected her to be silent.
That is no fault of hers.