I am no Lang Leav
and you are no Michael Faudet
yet
here we are
arranging letters
bit by bit
'cause we're
simply


*a poem with feet.

"I believe in you." Words that water flowers.  
-Faudet, M.


I'm not saying
that it will unwilt all the sadness away
That by just saying those words
would magically lift a person to bloom exceedingly
I'm saying
it might at least not **** the very tiny, little hope,
motivation,
reason to live
she has in her heart
I'm saying
at least she won't die

And some day,
when the sun seems a lot brighter
She is gonna thank you for that

-A wilting flower

this morning,
before we hung out,
i read back
over the sexts
we sent
when i caught the bus
home from Atlanta
this time last year.

i'd never thought to
count how often
i made you shriek
that night
(nine times.)
every time i'd read over
that catalogue of texts
i just seemed to get distracted,
recollecting how your
fingers slipped
between your legs
with nothing
save my poems
and silver tongue
to guide their rhythm.

when we stumbled
across Michael Faudet's
***** Pretty Things
mere hours later
in our favorite coffee shop,
i laughed at the irony.
somehow, i knew 1:00am
would find me writing
about that all-night drive again.

when you wake to see
this poem illuminated
on your screen, i hope
you'll grin at my audacity
before plunging your hand
once more between.
i hope you think of me
when you reach the brink
and whisper my name
between rattled breaths
when you *** beneath the sheets.

I want to be what I should be
In the context of consistency,
Your early morning ritual, the coffee
And the egg that you would like me to be,
     A habit you can never get rid of,
A certain pose for the cameras,
A certain post on Instagram, the way,
Exquisite, unique, and endearing
That your mouth motions, your lips lead,
Your cheeks cast the skip-a-beat
     Magic of your smile to my heart.

Dearest PVC, I want to learn cardiology.
I want to be the Michael Faudet
For your Lang Leav soul.
I want to move a japanese mountain,
Then be a sushi or a truffle, yes,
     I even want to be a truffle.

     And I just want to court you...
     ...like always...
          ...and after always.*

© 2017 J.S.P.

... Dispatches from Dante's 7th Circle:
4:15 a.m.
your talons tore at another's neck*

a feast of flesh
a
favored treat
that lack of brains
but the ego's sweet

pheromones permeated... the smell of ***
divergent innocence
with every flex

bring napkins now for that forbidden drip
as you lay satisfied with a bitten lip

*an index finger knew where to find you
pinky gravity, a room that's moon blue
thumb and pointer, begin to saunter
no ring to cover
just a middle, taunt her

I wonder what it would be like
To be loved by a poet
To fill books with words about each other
Like Lang Leav and Michael Faudet
To exchange letters in passing
To wake up to poetry on my nightstand
To give my writing to someone
Who understands how profound the gesture
And what it truly means
To be able to read the transcript of my heartbeat