"deflating" poems
(for Christopher Isherwood)
Seated after breakfast
In this white-tiled cabin
Arabs call the House where
Everybody goes,
Even melancholics
Raise a cheer to Mrs.
Nature for the primal
Pleasure She bestows.
*** is but a dream to
Seventy-and-over,
But a joy proposed un-
-til we start to shave:
Mouth-delight depends on
Virtue in the cook, but
This She guarantees from
Cradle unto grave.
Lifted off the *****
Infants from their mothers
Hear their first impartial
Words of worldly praise:
Hence, to start the morning
With a satisfactory
Dump is a good omen
All our adult days.
Revelation came to
Luther in a privy
(Crosswords have been solved there)
Rodin was no fool
When he cast his Thinker,
Cogitating deeply,
Crouched in the position
Of a man at stool.
All the arts derive from
This ur-act of making,
Private to the artist:
Makers' lives are spent
Striving in their chosen
Medium to produce a
De-narcissus-ized en-
During excrement.
Freud did not invent the
Constipated miser:
Banks have letter boxes
Built in their façade
Marked For Night Deposits,
Stocks are firm or liquid,
Currencies of nations
Either soft or hard.
Global Mother, keep our
Bowels of compassion
Open through our lifetime,
Purge our minds as well:
Grant us a king ending,
Not a second childhood,
Petulant, weak-sphinctered,
In a cheap hotel.
Keep us in our station:
When we get pound-notish,
When we seem about to
Take up Higher Thought,
Send us some deflating
Image like the pained ex-
-pression on a Major
Prophet taken short.
(Orthodoxy ought to
Bless our modern plumbing:
Swift and St. Augustine
Lived in centuries
When a stench of sewage
Made a strong debating
Point for Manichees.)
Mind and Body run on
Different timetables:
Not until our morning
Visit here can we
Leave the dead concerns of
Yesterday behind us,
Face with all our courage
What is now to be.
13.9k
she asks at last,
is this one for me
“of course it is,
was waiting for visualizing
the Oh,
when I heard
you stumbled into it”
she then confesses,
she has
a “tendency to stumble”
without an explanation
her answer is in her manner subtle,
that instantly invigorates,
so decidedly her style,
her answer,
raising more questions,
defeating the illusion of
anybody masculine overconfidence of the challenger
she puts the ”oy” in coy,
deflating my upper-handed attitude,
with an answer tantalizing and hinting,
so simple, it explains everything
and nothing
it seems that when she stumbles,
it’s me that actually,
“all fall down”
ah woman,
when you best me,
it brings forth the best
and adds an
“a”
in this poetic beast,
two play fighting cubs nipping
each other. the in us gaming
in this wordplay game,
so exciting,
her subtle reasoning teasing
results in a man as
a happy sore loser*
Oct 3, 2018
Oct 3, 2018 at 5:16 PM UTC
In the divet between mountains
Resides a wooden cabin – ostensibly an amalgamation of the scape
Adroitly - I - quondam female warrior flit
Down massive (ancient) hand-laid, hand-cut carved stone steps
Bounding from contingent step onto the dense pad of turned soil
Tacit compliance between gravity and soil holds footprints bound
A compressed deflating crescendo as pace ignites with bounds
Cadences of protuberant wildflowers and grasses erupt from swollen terra
A winsome chromatic menagerie, dispersed in ecstatic fistfuls
A venerably ancient ritual
My nascent clandestine vocation
Personally meted out - a beatification for my provisional sanctuary
Along glacier-fed stream
Lissome fingers shadow inert stalks –plucking dormant beginnings from their desiccated ligaments
I am austere and unadorned save for a festoon of pyrite flecks trailing my semblance
Residual gilding from my ante-meridian swim taken after requisite gathering of wild blackberries, goose berries, and rhubarb along oft-tamped path
The sun, nestling into its requisite apex endorsed my completion
I reclined into the hassock of soil, feeling the elements settle about with an embossment of my form
Imposing verdure arched subtly as compressed soil beckoned hyperbolic flux
As I lay within the basilica of opulent living columns replete with comestible bounty
Lingering dew honed inflections of sacrosanct petrichor in unison with piquant clover
Wild purple clover buds saccharinely tinted and inundated nestled nerves in mine cribriform plate
Birds pitched and galloped through the frond tips and beyond in the lapis expanse
Frequently snatching damselfly’s and assemblages of midges from their ephemeral drift
Auspicious rays transcended stippled diaphanous gravid clouds
Light inundated ether entered humbly into the cathedral oculus
Pyrite speckled terrain beneath, and my bare gilded form above
Cast a refracted aura about my sanctuary
Precipitously the elusive vaporous embankment distended further
Ashen atmospheric correspondence inaugurated liquescent sustenance to my mountain abode
And I -
Lingered beneath the descending gobbets, curls furled in a puddle
Fresh topsoil cupping my corporal topographic contours
Pressing blackberries into my mouth between smiles
Jan 26, 2014
Jan 26, 2014 at 9:13 PM UTC
Pyres of cityscapes burn contingently in the distance
ever drunk with blood of a mother, a nurturer who asks
nothing of the morose, self-consumed existence
she cares for. Her brow cocked,
wrinkles descend like
rain that tears down
a window.
Pain.
You're bleeding out! But she'll never put herself
forefront. How could she? Sitting, reflecting.
Tormented by incompetence, her soft
voice silently flutters the leaves.
Drearily an extension of her lips, the words
escape the cusps like a cautious prairie-dog.
Smog obscures
the senses, a haze
darkening the pupils of your celestial eyes.
I still see You
drooping in the rocker under a hard light. Retaining know-
ledge of past and present, through spectacles.
Her deflating **** secreting
concrete into the sucklings, cementing fate,
as the clock that hangs above her falters. I shutter to think of the
future that's afore. When the one who's raised me is not.
No more.
Your timber limbs look awfully thin. Restless and alone,
she's tired. "Abandoned"
we're all alone,
but your company means more to me than a sustainable
stone.
May 10, 2010
May 10, 2010 at 8:31 AM UTC
The moon hangs, like the main decoration on a very eerie christmas tree, gloomily in the night sky.
Its gentle glow illuminates the world which is otherwise consumed in darkness.
The giant orb, plump like a ripe fruit-
yet glazed over with a chilling moss, inches higher and higher through the starry Milkyway.
When the clock strikes twelve it reaches summit and stops - as if basking in its own awe.
Gently, ever gently the music of the moon wafts through its carressing waves of moonshine - which hug the world below...and in the light of the full moon the fairies seem to dance and glow.
Their tunes and merriment are in celebration of the magic of dreams and fantasy in the air;
But suddenly it's not there anymore, and terror strikes the fairyfolk as they are abandoned in pitch black -
The moon has disappeared.
A candiflossed cloud eclipses the globe and steals the magic from the world.
But soon the moon is free from its disguise and the merriment continues.
Late into the night, when the goddess has long since begun her decent, like a silver'd over balloon, deflating - ever so slowly.
The fairies go back to their flowers and trees, go back to sleep and the world begins to lose its magic again...the soft symphony starts to die, in a slow pianissimo.
And just as she disapears, and sinks into the horizon, just as the dawn approaches, the world is engulfed in a deafening silence - in anticipation.
And as if the interval had gone on for hours, the sky bursts out into a carcophany of trumpets, and orchestra;
a crescendo jubilation as Apollo then edges into existence.
He brings a new kind of magic;
The magic of life.
All this I see, all this I hear when I play my sonata.
I feel the softness of the moon.
I feel the magic as I dance across the keys.
I see the world in a different light, through the music notes sketched into my mind.
And then as the night dies, I experience the rebirth of a new day, through the rise and fall of my melody -
All in the span of just a few minutes and then its gone, all gone -
And I am left starring, alone at the blank pages.
Nov 27, 2013
Nov 27, 2013 at 9:25 AM UTC
she hides behind lies
crying eyes try to smile
lost in a world of ghosts
and love, conditional
from across the room
I feel an energy shift
as the imagined pressure
hits critical
once again we have liftoff
followed by irritation and excuses
bad feelings and emotional strain
and for what…..
a few lines of silliness
pasted to a social media network
deflating friendships
with guile and pizazz
Jun 9, 2015
Jun 9, 2015 at 4:38 PM UTC
My face blue
I race through
A misplaced zoo
Where disgrace grew
Into a mistake stew
Like the River Styx
Where people mix
Into a wall of bricks
That makes me sick
They steal my serenity
But when I look ahead of me
I see that I'll need them
To experience freedom
So I amass suitors
But I don't see them as sons or daughters
I see them as polluters
I see them as pirates and marauders
They see love as a doorway
To their own complacency
In order to see me more days
They take away my agency
Instead of aiding me
They start grading me
No longer elating me
They start deflating me
I shoot a missile
Of dismissal
Into the barricade
Of the bed I made
And keep sailing on
By flailing on
The floor
Begging for more
More people
More walls
Another sequel
Another fall
I have erected a maze
Where I've elected to graze
Deflecting their gaze
To enjoy wandering days
I experience happiness
Without their craftiness
But I begin to get lonely
My mouth starts foaming
I search to find ramparts
That can't part
Where landsharks
Eat the parked
Stuck searching
Perpetually perching
On the ledge
Of the wedge
Between myself and others
Looking for cover
I built protective walls
That became too tall
Jun 21, 2018
Jun 21, 2018 at 1:45 AM UTC
~
*prelude.
did you know that English stands alone as a written language requiring the capitalization of the word "I"... yet makes no similar provision for “we” or “us; a sad statement of self inflation. it was after learning this that i abandoned the rule in my own poetry.*
~
my i’s averted,
lowered, diverted,
reduced in size,
an exercise of
large proportions;
breaking down the me-isms,
finding room for we-isms,
to take the larger place;
create an i for seeing,
the case for simple,
smaller being;
no need to punctuate,
instead eliminate this
compulsion to inflate;
’tis my i-drop moment,
my i-reducing ointment,
these pupils are dilated,
deflating i and me,
enlarging we and thee;
finding that in i-reduction,
the eyes are widely opened,
thus to better see,
what i really need to be.
Oct 10, 2016
Oct 10, 2016 at 12:49 PM UTC
Water of remembrance sprinkled
On the mountain crest of recollection.
Indulgent mussy memory catapulted
Stones of retentiveness into the
Courtyard of events like bricole
Of battles.
Pendulum of reminiscences swinging
On oscillating milage of roads like
Trotting horse with drippage of sweat
And itching foots.
Ghost of reminiscences restlessly
Roaming with carriage of yesteryear.
Final year educatees required
Boardinghouse,
But list of items engorged dear
Mother's treasury
"where do l raise money
to buy oyinbo mattress, Ilori?"
Mind pullulated with weariness.
Intonation of worries.
Cantillation of wants.
Deficiency of measured means.
Oyinbo mattress beyond ladder
Of reach.
Gluttonously waiting to devour
Lesser items,
But rays of compulsion unslammed
The gate of respite.
Lordly arrival warmly welcomed by
The dorm room's porter,
Walking majestically to the bed-space
With the acquired cotton wool and raffia leaves mattress.
Gamut of items passed through the eagle's eyes of the housemaster.
Silver painted pail donated by a neighbour passed through the sentry of inspection,
And got its admission.
Mother's used cloak turned bedsheets
Passed through the rigorous scrutiny.
Newly built portmanteau unlocked and neatly dissected, item by item.
Agazed eyes focused on the cotton wool and raffia leaves hand-made mattress.
Expectations rattled mumbling astonishment.
Legs stuck in the mud of mystification.
Telepathic dews covered ocean of thought.
Tranquil silence engulfed vicinity,
Deflating the balloon of hope like a litigant awaiting verdict from the jurist's chambers.
Porter's gesticulating gesture connoted nothingness of demeaning disapproval, perambulating on the hilly terrain of approval.
Akimbo stood l.
Now the verdict!
Molten volcanic magisterial command erupted in a gestapo gesture,
Spudding out from the barytone's baritone voice from the selfsame housemaster,
From the bastion of authority,
And the house generalissimo like a wild brant squalled, matter-of-factly,
"we do not accept bed bugs cotton wool and raffia leaves hand-made mattress here".
Entreaties collapsed.
Jan 11, 2019
Jan 11, 2019 at 1:30 AM UTC
I stood at the bridge on Monroe,
peering into a stale brown river
hoping to be swept away
by a historic flood.
Reflections of these steel towers
bent, cracked and refracted,
becoming ripples where the water lay flat.
And as I turned, a great roar exploded
like a thunderous train
galloping over a brittle iron bridge.
Slabs of forged metals and concrete
crumbled like an autumn leaf under a footprint.
Mighty architecture burst out in a spectacular grey;
a Fourth of July before 1855.
Everything built, believed and once conceived
now fell like deflating balloons:
slowly, calmly without hurry--only certainty.
And I stood amid the wreckage,
where we once built cathedrals
surrounded by heavy lights and one-way flights.
One step wedged another mile between us,
and our dusty promises became harder to see.
Nov 3, 2014
Nov 3, 2014 at 2:14 PM UTC
A large **** slashed open its side.
A collision with a boat we all think.
Though no boat has claimed its ****
The wind whipped its scent through the crowd
a saltier tang than usual.
More concentrated; more direct.
Its chest heaved with the rhythm of the waves
as water poured into its lax mouth
expanding its chest
in a mockery of breath
before deflating again like a balloon spent.
Bites from opportunistic feeders
marred the solid gray-blue-white skin
with a pinkish hue
and gaping holes.
Its blood lingered in the dark green waves
a sandy-pink as it flowed with the current.
And people still swam in its wake!
Unperturbed by the dead still bleeding
or the funeral procession watching on
in a half-circle of grief and awe and humor too
as the largest of lives we don't normally see
lay dead on the beach.
Sep 15, 2021
Sep 15, 2021 at 10:07 AM UTC
Thoughts,
A curious thing,
Boat to boat,
Dream to dream,
Leap to leap,
Light bulb to beam,
Idea,
Spark to spark,
Jump start the cranial arc.
Neuron negotiation team.
Ambulance the ambivalence,
Channel out the Ritalin,
Limited dosages,
One day at a time, focusing,
Wake up, ECT voltages,
Sent them in the mail,
As postage just as,
Goldy-locked as porridges,
Clear the clouded vision, it's a must,
Derail the failure,
Exceed the labor,
Taste success, it's flavor,
Savor it.
Maintain a relationship with the Lord,
Escapin' and deflating ship,
Swallowed by the sea,
With a murderous howl,
Til' thoughts drift away,
Flow into the process womb,
The man that plays instruments,
Holds the key to the control panel of THINK,
Doesn't MIND this tomb,
Destiny and instinct,
Keeping each other in sync,
Putting one and two together,
Every time an internal light switch is flicked,
Not one soul around,
My thoughts mixed,
In this synaptic mail-room,
Unsorted letters,
Swimming through the mound,
Forever searching for their connections,
Til one day they'll meet,
Between then and now,
All that are lost in the end will be found.
Dec 15, 2012
Dec 15, 2012 at 4:55 AM UTC
Tonight
I feel convex,
breathing wilted air
into deflating lungs.
Easing into oneself
is kinder on the fingernails
than hugging empt.
Wallflowers bloom
into streetlamps;
peripheries
maintain order.
Bowling ball bumper lanes
are immortal.
Aug 7, 2014
Aug 7, 2014 at 11:33 PM UTC
This is a torturous test
And I'm failing
In a state of unrest
So I'm flailing
And wailing
And bailing
On living
After constantly giving
And receiving nothing in return
Except extremely intense heartburn
To which there is no end I learn
So for peace my hopeless heart yearns
I want to sleep
In a streak
Of a week
For I'm meek
So I sink
Into drink
And drugs
Rolling on the rug
Looking for a plug
To stop my heart from leaking
And my eyes from peeking
At what I'm seeking
Because there lies only pain
That's a continuous rain
Growing like grain
Until I'm insane
Death is near
All my fears
What will happen before I die?
The question makes me cry
Will life be one big sigh?
I wonder why I even try
The waiting
Is grating
Equating
To deflating
So I become the nice guy
In the lonely night sky
Avoiding brutal daylight
For it's another day's fight
The most unsightly sight
Illuminated by the sun
Shooting rays like a gun
Until I see I'm the only one
I realize if I'm blind I can run
So I cut out my eyes
To ignore all the lies
And the carrion flies
In this giant pig sty
On an odyssey like Homer's
My mouth starts to foam over
Searching for a four-leaf clover
But only finding allergies
Which is this year's salary
In this dismal shooting gallery
Where I'll watch bullets fly
Until the day I die
Apr 4, 2018
Apr 4, 2018 at 2:13 PM UTC
It was the mouths fault
smacking together, flicking sticky
reality onto her collarbone.
Squishing perfectly whole beginnings into soggy afterthoughts
It could have left them alone, yet
silence is failure, and success was all it could talk about
Never reach for a door closing if you
can't handle the pain.
Pinched knuckles inflamed with blame,
stiffly folding in quiet fury
Nails are diva's
rallying strikes when ignored, scratching at patience
always needing attention
All active in the community: grabbing and giving, holding and pushing,
killing and mending, building and breaking.
Thing is, fingerprints only matter in crimes
It's losing pressure. Deflating, collapsing.
Rubbing is hopeless, exams are lazy, blinking is irritating. No focus
Look at her-
Can't.
Look her in the eyes-
Won't
No focus, no focus, ......no .....fo....
*{bare shoulders
fingers intertwined
soft...lips..
broken skateboards
midnight bench talk
sun burns
you're it
you're it
you're}*
Not.
Reading makes it worse, table charts said it would continue deteriorating. Always blurred, always squinting.
So much depending, so much waiting. so much, so much, ......so....muc
*{desire
promises
hope
backseat lounging
hours of music
October coffee
I'm ready
I'm ready
I'm}*
Not.
Never. Stop.
Don't quit, don't go easy.
Committed- following through, following these vines. These promises
Don't underestimate- prove it.
Every day, every day, every.single.day.
*but.
please.
I am,
hurting
I trust
and
I'm failed
I won't let you down
but.
Don't take me for granted
I am strong, I am strong, I am strong
but.
I have moments*
Mouth's lie, hand's reach, eye's fade, heart's ache.
Be more than the weakness
I am only human
but.
I want more
Jun 20, 2012
Jun 20, 2012 at 11:52 PM UTC
I hate that I never said goodbye.
I was only eleven,
and I was a liar,
and I was tired of
hospital beds and crying people and mysterious smells and sounds
and flowers and hymn-singing and
useless tacky balloons that only wasted space,
wilting and deflating after only a few days,
and crumpling to the linoleum into a
shiny crinkled fifteen-dollar piece of trash.
(I thought it was beautiful,
but it was such a waste because
of course you never noticed.)
The February outside was damp and indecisive,
spring one day and winter back the next,
but I would have much rather been out on the freezing cold lawn
than in that tension-filled room of white.
Finally, I could stand it,
once you were home (still in that mechanical bed,
but at least you were in a room with a beautiful stained glass window
and forest green carpet dusted with dog hair)
on that last night
- though of course we could not know it was the last
while we stood in that golden room
and sang you to sleep.
It was terrible-awful to see my father cry
in his father's old navy suit
to be sitting, numb and nonchalant in the first pew
right in the front of the church
right where your slate grey coffin lay
draped in the glorious red white and blue.
And to know that
I had lied when I walked out that door
into the star-sparkled night
because even while I loved you
and love you still
I didn't say goodbye that night.
- February 18th, 2007 -
May 22, 2014
May 22, 2014 at 2:08 PM UTC
Never ending,
continuously reminding,
unpausing,
haunting.
My grief.
A cliff where my love hangs on a thread,
clouded behind this smile,
this laugh.
Care to look closer?
My grief.
Growing,
Flaring,
Exploding,
My grief.
Dwindling,
Deflating,
Flattening,
My grief.
Strengthening,
Time consuming,
Soul-sucking,
Depressing,
Enlightening,
My grief.
Nov 7, 2021
Nov 7, 2021 at 3:03 PM UTC
Fire. Replacements.
Issues? Productivity.
Decision in order, severe
Raising questions
Consumer, retailer, associates
Market based.
Will not reveal
Range for their role
Earn, risk, deflating, left behind
Probably thinking they don’t have a future there
Do these questions offend you?
Hourly workers, open positions.
We have and continue to control what’s next
Stiff competition, corporate struggle
Watchdogs fail
Demoralized
Nov 12, 2010
Nov 12, 2010 at 7:48 PM UTC
I'm sitting in a bar. A place where they all collect. They come together with smiling eyes and open hearts and sit, drink and just shoot the **** They are all noteworthy people, not a boring or reserved soul among the bunch. And they share stories of their highs, lows and purgatories.
One of them, his name's Jimmy, tells the story he always tells when he's teetering between coherency and slop-talk. He tells of how he died. He hopped in his car one day, and boy did he love his cars. And that particular car, the one his heart stopped beating in, was his favorite. He sped down the road, his hair blowing in the wind and his hand beating the side of the door as he sang "Strangers in the Night" as it blasted through his radio speakers. He wasn't drunk, he never really was fond of drinking when he was still breathing (he says being dead is depressing and alcohol is the only thing that "assures" him). His car swerved sharply, it was raining, and he just couldn't control the hunk of metal. His head hit the windshield before he even knew what happened.
Jimmy looked down at his Jack and Coke and smiled. His eyes, now drowning in salt water, glistened off the cheap fluorescent lights. He told me he never got to tell his mother he loved her. Never got to tell his girlfriend that he thought they were meant to be. Never got to show the world that the man hidden behind so many layers of insecurity and recklessness was a man that was going to span time, generations. And I look back at him, my mouth curling a little and told him that he might not have gotten to talk to his mother or his girlfriend... But he **** well made his mark. After all, he's in a bar filled with dozens of people with stories not unlike his own. And he's talking to me. Me, with my chest inflating and deflating as it filled and emptied itself of sugary oxygen. Me, with my eyes alive and blinking and shining with life. Me, who is alive.
At least, I hope to God I am.
Jan 15, 2013
Jan 15, 2013 at 7:16 PM UTC
In the echoing sadness around me
voids grow wider
deflating more hearts
less hopeful, by the second
it's not the life I dreamt of
in the blackness of my childhood nights
the future glimmering before me - I was sure
a shining thing;
I could only imagine vibrant beauty,
abundance
possibilities for stunning joy
but
there are things outlined in the mist
vast and terrible
not foreseen
my innocent thoughts danced elsewhere
the only things I hoped for
have been stomped
to dust
by the villainous reality
Jun 17, 2013
Jun 17, 2013 at 3:08 PM UTC
I viewed our pictures,
Our visual memories,
And felt the chill
On the back of my knees,
of that cold winter morning,
Where the dorms were cold,
and classes cancelled,
and we walked out in the snow,
near knee deep,
and photographed the children playing.
Where we ran into Snowstorm,
Shivering in his sweatpants,
While doing the same as we.
So we drank our whiskey,
warmed by our hot apple cider,
and hot cocoa with schnapps,
While you viewed my photos,
Telling me,
“they’re your best you’ve done,
I love you,
I’m cold, let’s warm up
Like lovers do,
On winter nights.”
And convinced each other
We’d be the ones to hold
One another tight when
Our lives ever got out of hand,
To this cold again,
Together.
And with lights fading,
And buzzes deflating,
At last you told me,
Those pictures weren’t
As good as I meant them to be.
Aug 11, 2013
Aug 11, 2013 at 2:27 AM UTC
we can paint this whole city gold like a giant oil spill,
blinding and much much heavy on your tongue
and enlist a gleaming marching band whose buttons are falling off,
the tuba player is a gum chewer, there are mint chunks caught inside, barely playable
all she can do is honk
we’ll get limos with cracked windows and yellow fire trucks,
with flat left tires
acrobats in risqué costumes that little boys will point and giggle at
with sick clown faces, sick clown faces white, 7 or 10 layers of powder
and people from the slums of Uganda/Somalia/Niger or something, poor areas won’t be hard to find,
foreign tenants who live in dirtied-down shacks and
we will release from plastic cages, doves that have lost their pure color
that have been injected with toxic who-knows-what to be captured
hookers with big hair from the streets of large cities, they will blow kisses at the children and
wink at grown men
pigeons will **** on the windshields,
and the air will be so thick with pollution and filth that no one will be able to see
the deflating balloons of Mickey Mouse.
it will be The Biggest Parade the-world-has-ever-seen.
Aug 1, 2010
Aug 1, 2010 at 2:28 PM UTC
you open your eyes and the next twenty-four hours
are building into a cluster of storm clouds above your head
and all day you are convinced tiny pellets of the coldest rain
are falling from the ceiling, the sky, from anywhere really
but the weather forecast proves you wrong
still, you know it is coming, looming in the distance
and you would sooner believe your heart as a mechanical machine
than deny the inevitable onslaught of the malevolent future.
the mirror is chanting of your insanity,
your eyes of your deterioration
and you aren’t blind, you know what they’re seeing
and you aren’t deaf, you hear what they’re saying
but you swear the world is melting all around you,
colors drooling and dissipating in a matter of seconds
and each inhale is a pinprick and with each exhale you are deflating
but nothing is noticeably different, not really, at least,
except today, all of your ghosts left their graves
and are standing on your doorstep, ringing the doorbell, incessantly,
and today, you are expected to spend quality time with them, face to face.
Feb 8, 2014
Feb 8, 2014 at 6:34 PM UTC
I crave those days back when I could just look behind my shoulder
and I would see you lying there reading on my bed.
I wonder why I never wrote about how happy I was with you.
Those suppressed smiles that would tug upon the edges of your lips as you read my poetry.
I can still remember how your tongue brushes your front teeth when,
oh how you used to exquisitely say "I love you."
I never paid much attention to the curves of your form back then.
How the arc of your spine is the red carpet for the curve of your ***
How enticing your features were, when you lay bare on top of my sheets.
How the round edges of your lips were appetizers for the round brown eyes you had.
Your cute button nose.
Your chest slowly rising and deflating to match your breath.
I fell irrevocably in love with each time your breath exaggerates the fullness of your chest.
I still remember how the skins between your ******* would feel a lot like home
and truth be told;
I'm homesick.
Jan 7, 2015
Jan 7, 2015 at 3:48 PM UTC