"prominently" poems
so I brought my writer wife
(prominently pregnant)
to the hospital
and on her bed, she screamed:
*"weren't" "hasn't" "couldn't" "shan't"
"aint" "hadn't" "you're" "isn't"
"aren't" "didn't" "wasn't"
"who's?" "what's?" "he's" "she's"*
The doctors were confounded
and they turned to me and they said:
"What the hell is she doing?"
And I replied with double speed
and a violent sense of urgency:
*"Don't you know?
She's having contractions -
she's a writer"*
Oct 1, 2014
Oct 1, 2014 at 1:51 AM UTC
Like an onion, I had layers.
And you peeled me away, one at a time.
One layer off.
You saw my favorites.
The food and drinks I crave for.
The wall paint I wanted for my room.
The perky dresses, nail polish, knee-high boots.
And the spot I always prefer to be- on the front seat.
One layer off.
You saw my hobbies.
The words I stitched together.
The stars that formed our zodiac sign.
The wallclimbing, badminton, volleyball.
And the guitar strings that strum our lullaby.
One layer off.
You saw my dreams.
The plane ticket to Paris.
The thrill of a bungee jump.
The candlelit dinner, fireworks, dancing fountain.
And the license as a medical physician.
One layer off.
You saw my strengths.
The smile behind the false judgements.
The tears I fought back with pride.
The temperance, confidence, adjustments.
And the self-love I have strongly magnified.
One layer off.
You saw my insecurities.
The missing dimple on my left cheek.
The pimples on my forehead.
The bitchface, fierce stare, strict walk.
And this prominently thin-but-tall body figure.
One layer off.
You saw my regrets.
The kisses I could have refused.
The friends I thought were true.
The false assumptions, unmet expectations.
And the trust I gave to the wrong person.
One layer off.
You saw my secrets.
The punches I had to take.
The bruises I covered with my sleeves.
The lies, frustrations, disappointments.
And the brokenness suppressed in my memory.
The last layer, off.
You saw through me.
The anxiousness escalating slowly.
The exposure feeling uneasy.
I felt stripped, explored, unguarded.
And in my nakedness - you had to choose:
To love or to leave me,
For who I really am.
Oct 27, 2013
Oct 27, 2013 at 2:49 AM UTC
If mirrors were made to be looked into
And people deserve to be loved
Why didn't I feel good peering into
The merciless glass?
Why was I told that my body
No matter how wonderful I felt
Was disgusting?
Why did my eyes veer away from the truth
As I stood, body prominently shown
Even when I felt beautiful?
When a society gets to the breaking point
Where a girl can try her absolute best to be healthy
And someone asks "who are you doing this for?"
As if the answer is something other than herself
There is a problem.
Spending most of my life absolutely loathing my reflection was pointless
Those telling me I need to change
Telling me I should be ashamed
Looking me up and down with a disgusting countenance that spewed hatred and the only words they could make out was "how much do you weigh?"
They were wrong.
There's no need to bring the happy down
And baby, I was soaring before you came around
I WILL LOOK TO MY REFLECTION AND ALL BUT FROWN
I WILL EMBRACE MY CURVES AS THE WINDING HILLS THEY ARE
MY BEAUTIFUL STRETCH MARKS MAKES MY BODY MORE INDIVIDUAL THAN ANY IRON-BOARD
I WILL REJOICE FOR RECOGNIZING MYSELF AS THE GODDESS I TRULY AM
STRUCK DOWN FROM HEAVEN ONLY TO RISE AGAIN
MY BODY THE SACRED TEMPLE OF THE GODS
AND WHEN ASKED HOW I BEAT THE ODDS I WILL SAY,
"We have been taught to hate
Those that appear a certain way
By an unqualified teacher.
And one day, alone with my mirror
I peered into it to see my body clearer
And I realized my beauty was there all along
I was just looking through clouded lenses."
Nov 28, 2016
Nov 28, 2016 at 9:33 PM UTC
In the golden bull that Alexios Comnenos issued
to prominently honor his mother,
the very sagacious Lady Anna Dalassene-
distinguished in her works, in her ways-
there are many words of praise:
here let us convey of them
a beautiful, noble phrase
"Those cold words 'mine' or 'yours' were never spoken."
2.9k
Tell me your dreams
The desires which you so
desperately crave
Tell me so I can see the burning passion
in your piercing eyes
The sparkles that shine so prominently
Tell me your fears
The nightmares where dreaded creatures lurk in the
darkness, attempting to penetrate your mind
Tell me so I can prevent those common shadows before
they befuddle and torment you
The burning fury they obtain when they engulf you
at your most vulnerable state
Tell me how your mind works
The intricate way for which those wonderful
thoughts of yours flow
Tell me how to be so magically profound about
life, time, and death
The ways of straying away from reality to catch
a glimpse of paradise
Tell me the forbidding truth about my unfortunate path
The cold, naked, and abandoned road upon which
I have regrettably travelled
Tell me that paradise is at the bottom of a trench
And I shall allow myself to fall-my life
shall perish happily upon landing in paradise
|s.s|
Dec 4, 2013
Dec 4, 2013 at 9:14 AM UTC
Or darling, or sweetheart
But especially not babe.
You disgust me with your indecency.
Maybe some girls like when random strangers,
Mostly older men,
Scan their bodies intently.
I, frankly, am not really into that.
That is no way to attract me.
Don't touch my waste or the small of my back,
But most prominently,
Do not touch my hips or my ****
At least not in public.
I am not insecure,
I just think that some things should remain private.
I owe you nothing,
But I deserve respect.
I am a lady,
And I expect to be treated like one.
Jan 6, 2014
Jan 6, 2014 at 7:47 PM UTC
Here or there,
somewhere along in the way of it's thinking,
somewhere at the back of mind,
the mind knows there is always a curiosity.
An anxiousness to know more
A curious mind stays restless,
then an extra bit of effort is made to know more in detail about all that is happening.
Here or there,
somewhere along in the way of it's thinking,
somewhere at the back of mind,
the mind knows there is always an influence of something in life.
Particularly something in particular
This influence can also be found in the line of action that needs to be taken
Quite necessarily when the line of action is taken, then the role of influence can prominently be seen.
Here or there,
somewhere along in the way of it's thinking,
somewhere at the back of mind,
the mind knows a few things are always going to remain in store.
Some among these few things include the following,
bonding, mutual trust, understanding and also forgiveness.
Bonding comes naturally.
As we grow, we also realize the importance of bonding along with time.
Trust comes after experiencing odds and difficulties in life.
Forgiveness is for those, who believe that things can change for better,
if trust and faith are put together.
Here or there,
somewhere along in the way of it's thinking,
somewhere at the back of mind,
the mind knows there is always a hope for a better tomorrow.
When the everyday news is filled with bloodshed, violence and killings,
somewhere at the back of mind, the mind knows,
tomorrow will be better,
definitely much better than all what is going on as of now in the present.
So never give up in life
Work towards what you have set up as your goal,
while doing so always hope for a better tomorrow.
Oct 28, 2015
Oct 28, 2015 at 10:58 PM UTC
I can't say I will marry her really soon for sure, because this is India and the society here is really tough.
But I'm Atul Kaushal, my name literally means Incomparable Skill and I intend to achieve something significant in my life, such that I'm fully capable to fulfill all her unsaid hidden desires when we marry.
I don't want her to feel any regrets or other negative feelings when she marries me some 7 years later, I only want us to be different than the rest of world such that unlike most of them no problems arise between us due to various worldly problems.
May be I'm dreaming of something perfect, but so far my life has been perfectly imperfect with the share of misgivings I have had is the majority in my performance card and I now wish that when she marries me the only thing which is imperfect is our hairstyle every morning we wake up smiling as we remember the previous night.
May be I am or may be I'm not demanding too much from time - I'm just asking her in my destiny - just her - in my mornings I imagine her jogging with me - in my days toiling at her desk in the office just like me - in my afternoons calling me to verify if I had my lunch we had packed in the morning - in my evenings asking how my day at office had been and telling about hers too - in my weekends I see 'us' having fun.
May be I am or may be I'm not being too apprehensive in my mind - apprehensive that whether her family will accept me as their son-in-law, or we would have to forget each other, or we will have only one way left and that be just to take help from the court and elope to get married, or may be I will just have to abduct her from the wedding venue in full public view in front of her parents, uncles & aunts, siblings & cousins, friends & acquaintances, Hindu priests & pujaris, may be thugs & bodyguards hired by her family to keep the wedding a smooth affair, and may be my parents might refuse to let her in.
But under ideal conditions, it will be as I desired and even later we would be happily parenting two kids for I don't wish to have just one child like I myself had been in my childhood; these scars of loneliness are dug prominently on my face, but these disappear, yes these disappear when you make me smile along you as I hear you smile and I believe that these will surely disappear permanently after our formal union; till then I miss you meri nanhi si jaan my sweet young love, like I should have missed when I was fifteen too - I miss you and I miss you because I love you, I love you, I love you, I love you, I love you, I love you and I more than love you.
Apr 5, 2013
Apr 5, 2013 at 2:33 PM UTC
If Emily Dickinson was writing a suicide letter:
Dear Soft Reality,
Your presence brings me grief and your absence leaves me emptily blissful. You leave my heart to suffer under your cold dagger of truth. I see no purpose to further seek you, only to face my murderer in the bitter realms of my heart that have been so tortured by your harsh precision. To go on would be madness, but perhaps that is what I have become. A madwoman, trapped by lies of true love and wishful thinking. My heart was so filled with the falsity that has become love, and compassion. To completely give yourself to somebody, to find out that their heart already belongs to another fortunate soul, has by far been the down fall of my sanity. I cannot cry any more, what good would it do. I cannot deny the truth that my love has been poured into an bottomless pitcher…but oh how beautiful that pitcher was. It promised me everything I could dream of, so pristine and clean, signifying all that is good. It was decorated with ornate blossoms that told of new beginnings and hope and it’s spout was graced with delicate greenery that promised fortitude and protection from all that could bring harm. Now all I see is despair. As I took a closer look at its intricate detail, I began to nice the rotting leaves that lay beneath the blossoms, and the tiny thorns that lay prominently on the vinery across the spout. It has been a trap from the beginning, and I am in love with it.
However, I have poured my soul into that pitcher, and I have nothing left. My heart is parched and crackling, and my love has dried up on the shores of desperation. All that I have loved is gone, and my hope of release lies in a steel barrel of pain that lies in my left hand. It is beautifully real. I can wrap all of my loathing fingers around its cold trigger; it shows me the only truth that has been made clear to me. Death. I have been yet a tall drink, chilled on ice, numbed to reality, sipped on by the devil himself. Well the devil has had his share and is drunk on my love, leaving me an empty glass, with melted ice. I can feel every pang of you. There is nothing more for me here.
I shall introduce this truth to my mouth, and it will be sweet, like the first time I met his lips, so gentle and unassuming. Only this time, when death is promised, it will not be masked with love and tenderness. My tongue will make love to its silver bullet, as my mind slips into peace and silence from the wolves of my torment.
Feb 18, 2014
Feb 18, 2014 at 3:35 AM UTC
This brown buff speckled throstle of a bird sits in the higher most branches of a yet to be leafed poplar tree . . . and sings. Such a song in the April morning air it greets the day, celebrates the rising sun. Above a suburban street the bird’s song catches the reverberation of a double row of houses, their windows bouncing sonic reflections of unaccompanied melismata.
Olivier Messiaen loved this bird for its répétition égale. Walking the mountain woods around his summer home he would wonder that the grive musicienne could make so exactly repetition after repetition of a complex phrase. A proto-minimalist perhaps? The male mistle thrush appears in several ***** works but most prominently in Saint Francois d'Assis singing luminously on the clarinet.
Although this is the ungregarious male singing away on this spring morning his name carries a female designation Turdus Philomelos. Poor Philomel, whose name means one who loved song, she was a princess of Athens lusted after by King Tereus who took her to a cottage in distant woods and ***** her. Then, he cut out her tongue.
Vengeful Philomel alone in the woods, but a most resourceful and artistic young woman, she set about weaving a tapestry that told all.
*‘She set up a Tracian loom
And wove on a white fabric scarlet symbols
That told in detail what had happened to her*.’
She sent the finished piece to Tereus who promptly ordered Philomel's death and that of her sisters (one of whom he was married to). As the girls were about to be slain they were changed magically into three birds . .
Joanna Laurens play The Three Birds takes the only fragment we have of Sophocles telling of this strange tale. Laurens is both musician and linguist and the text is a marvel of strange sounds and rhythms as the sisters communicate with each other in their personal private language akin, it is said, to Jersiese, an ancient Breton dialect.
So thank you dear song thrush for this morning's wonder: a song sans pariel.
Jan 18, 2013
Jan 18, 2013 at 12:52 AM UTC
You couldn't possibly
accept
my intuition of
you.
Intricately weaved into my
benevolence.
To me you seemed sincere and
candy-coated.
Your eyes gleamed too prominently of an untouched type of
innocence.
As a huntress, with one agile
manipulation
of the gale beneath my
wings
I could have forever reformed your
fate
I respect who you are too
much
too much to value your
attractive
but-not-so-much intriguing chemical
attributes
Your underlying hopes and
dreams
through feats of meaningless
lust
and future out-of-spite
clashing
I saved you the soul mind and body
ache
of being broken and tossed
beyond
my most selfless
act
is something
you
couldn't possibly
accept.
Feb 14, 2013
Feb 14, 2013 at 12:27 PM UTC
I always forget how it feels to completely let someone in, let your guard down and allow yourself to be vulnerable.
to share your most personal strange opinions and experiences with another person
giving bits and pieces of yourself away until over time they can feel your whole being.
to show them even the ugliest qualities of yourself, the raw rough sloppy traits that are not prominently displayed.
to actually love.
and then it's gone in a moment, i feel like the reason it hurts so bad is because you showed them everything about who you are and they didn't want it.
they don't seem to understand what you've given them.
maybe they weren't as invested in this thing you thought you were creating together. but it's done.
I sleep alone and put all of my effort into not communicating with you.
but i still can't completely get away-dreams, mutual friends, objects, pictures, each one delivered with a swooping feeling in your stomach and new tears.
I know it always gets better, i've done this too many times to myself to not know that
but with every time it's always 'well it felt different' i always think we're on the same page and ignore the signs that point out otherwise.
i hate missing you. i don't get how you don't feel the same. i hate thinking about you knowing that your mind is elsewhere.
i hate that i still have dreams about you and i ******* hate feeling this sad.
i don't want to be friends. i don't want to be in the same place as you fully aware that i cannot touch you, or slide my hand up your leg under tables with exchanged looks, or sneak off in the middle of parties because we prefer our exclusive company and entangled limbs then anything else in that moment.
i wanted it all and you didn't
...and it *****
Feb 2, 2014
Feb 2, 2014 at 3:43 PM UTC
Anxiety is a chartreuse bookmark
pressed between the pages of life
prominently protruding around the edges
yellow and green
sickly caught between past and future
beginning and end
But when the story resumes
the bookmark is cast away
forgotten as action ensues
Apr 2, 2014
Apr 2, 2014 at 2:11 PM UTC
I heard the crow at dawn again.
It awoke me from a deep slumber.
As if to chastise me for not being up already.
There is so much to do, of course.
So I sat up on the edge of the bed.
And stretched up with my hands clasped.
The sun slowly creeping itself over the window ledge
And striking my eye just so...making me squint.
The crow called again.
I must not be fast enough for him.
I stand up with a half- hearted vigor
And rub my eyes.
I proceed with with my morning routine
Skipping the harsh mouthwash today.
Again the crow.
He hurries me as if I am racing a clock.
And makes my heart beat more prominently in my chest.
What an awful call a crow has.
Incessant and prodding.
I feel as if I am being yelled at and I don't deserve that.
I cross into the kitchen and reach over the door.
To the mount that holds my ol' Winchester.
I push open the squeaking screen door.
And step outside.
Again the crow calls but this time I am rallied.
I am too slow for him, am I?
We will see about that!
Jun 28, 2010
Jun 28, 2010 at 3:27 PM UTC
~~~
*bathed by breezes of southern gentility,
sun soaped by eye-prickling,
star twinkling glints,
shampooed in delicious waves
of white sno caps,
my crazy wild hair,
conditioned by the foaming bay's riffles
dappled waters transformed into a
Van Gogh glow of
The Sower
sprinkling golden seed
upon fields of summer wheat glorious
my little yellow rubber duckies,
are now blue white snow geese alive,
down from Nova Scotia,
where August is already
emboldened colden,
so they non-stop honk
tho mere passerbys,
everybody is seeking a place in history,
the surety,
that this poem,
by their inclusion herein,
promises posterity
the grass blades wave with
endless swaying applause,
at yet another attempt of poetic tribute,
for once more,
spell bound
by the bounty of the moment,
enslaved happily to the idea
there is no satiation possible
from the earthly satisfaction of this place,
this sheltered isle
the leaves are cappuccino frothy performers,
unison shaking just like a roman legion of stadium fans,
they offer me untold numbers of
likes and reads,
and other candied goodies,
promises endless to root for my winter dream teams,
if their presence is here
prominently included,
until they too
fall silent, grounded,
shed by their rightful owners
every time I think the well is dry,
swept under by a rip tide
of drowning overwhelming gratitude,
for here I come to a place.
a station for repair,
where poems are bandied about,
summer fruits ripe for plucking
sunroom lace, summer curtains,
will hide out here in my absence,
the lace, turns into snowflakes crystalline,
by icy waters and gusts,
that will be both
untrodden and unadmired
for when the poet is clad in the
damask drapes of winter's inevitability,
will close his eyes and
will hide out here,
right here,
in this one of his never ending
prior~poem~prayers homages,
until next year's
can't-come- too-early spring arrives,
sparked by tendrils of meeting markers,
noting that
new poems have been fallow fallen,
winter seeded,
awaiting your
watering and writing,
of the appreciation
of the
simple majesty
of this small corner of the earth*
Aug 15, 2015
Aug 15, 2015 at 9:18 PM UTC
I see you busy in your work.
Your hair, more white than black, is thin
And falls loosely over your shoulders;
There is a vein that beats prominently
Above your forehead, and your hands
Now gently shake when you are tired.
Your clothes sit light on you, the lines
On your face speak of the years in the sun;
You are not now the same person you were.
The back that bore the weight of three children
Is somewhat bent with time;
You had walked out of home to work
Overcoming the loud small-town voices
And your own shyness; they are silent now.
You were made of iron, but that too rusts.
I think of all this, and time, and sorrow.
You see me and conscious of my gaze
You smile your smile of missing teeth.
You are old, like silver, beautiful:
You seem to have walked out of a painting
By Raphael or some Renaissance master;
I cannot breathe, I am overcome:
There are days like this when we live
As if death or time did not matter,
When it is bliss just to be alive;
You tell me it may rain, to take the umbrella.
Among the most mundane things to say;
And all I think is how grateful I am
For life and you and everything,
And how old age should be exactly like this:
To have lived a life doing the things you love
Being the mistress of the small things,
Watching what you gave your heart to take shape.
Diptesh Ghosh
Aug 18, 2013
Aug 18, 2013 at 9:23 AM UTC
He began by taking samples
Little things at first
A photograph of summer freckles
A strand of hair
Fingernail clippings
And my favorite polish
Turquoise and caicos
Footprints
On the bathroom floor
Nothing I would notice
Nothing I would miss
And then he went bigger
My lips concealed
In his underwear drawer
My fingers and toes
Still painted
Stuck in the yogurt
The peanut butter
Full of ears, a nose
He grew bold
With surgical precision
Moved my ribs to the fridge
Chilling
Staving off listeria
My hips he displayed prominently
Framed by the headboard of his bed
My head serving as centerpiece
For his infrequent dinner guests
Shapely legs holding up the table
And believe me
THEY ARE THE SHAPLIEST
Arms supporting arms
New tattoos on his favorite chair
My alarm clock heart
Beating wake up
Wake up
Get out of bed
From his desk
And meaning
Nothing more than that
"I wanted you for my collection,"
He said
"You're the most extraordinary
Specimen I've ever met."
Mar 22, 2013
Mar 22, 2013 at 11:08 AM UTC
From another skies of the galaxy
She stretches her hands above
The universe,
She has lavender eyes
And often when she cries
Her tears have lavender scent,
She doesn’t understand the logic
And the primitive abstractions
Of your logic, enough for her sight
Is the tranquility of the lavender sun,
Without any form is her smile
Under amethyst crystal aura
She is waving in your world
Prominently.
She is my shadow unknown.
Oct 5, 2016
Oct 5, 2016 at 5:37 AM UTC
certain words don't provide adequate
ontological modes,
they provide ontological medians
or means, but not modes,
for example, a good comparison would be
to compare two words, only two words:
a. atheism and b. apathy.
dissect the words during a syllable
cut as a meaningful prefix, in both
examples that's a-,
what do you get?
a- (without) god (/ theology), contradictory
given that atheism is a type of theology,
a logic to disprove the existence of something,
but it's still a theology of some sort,
now the second example:
a- (without) pathology (/ailments of
range whether phobias or their antonyms,
psychological constructs that are stressed
more prominently than serious pains
that leave everyone psychologically paralysed
by that parasite of pain).
in terms of ontology, in simpler terms simply qua,
which is more important in human affairs?
qua apathetic or qua atheistic?
personally? i think the former - there are more
obstructions in the former's rubric of obstructions
than in the latter's, given that it's a rarity
to be suddenly struck down with plagues
and prophetic ailments of ill fate...
i don't care how cool it looks, to be an atheist,
you could only be a true atheist if you
were illiterate and couldn't use the alphabet
(that old chestnut from the book of genesis,
in the beginning there was word, and the word
was god), or if you were part of that
famous experiment done by frederick ii
hohenstaufen where a bunch of children
were raised in a phonetic celibacy by nuns,
just to prove what language was spoken first;
well the experiment conclusively
produced a bunch of mutes...
i guess extending the experiment's parameters
to animals would never work:
try forcing a cat to bark, as many vanities
of "proven reasons" died when kublai khan
moved the horde east without due respect
for peace-loving mongolians.
Jan 16, 2016
Jan 16, 2016 at 1:32 PM UTC
FIVE HAIKU (9th COLLECTION)*
1
Mother on wheel-chair
young daughter pushes and chats
they seem so cheerful
2
A hidden old lane
graffiti spread on the wall
who and when painted?
3
Among the antiques
stained photos of long ago
of married couples
4
Hamburger outlet
mothers wait in a long queue
' mum, I am hungry!'
5
Pots of red roses
so prominently displayed
the florist wears pink
Oct 11, 2015
Oct 11, 2015 at 9:57 PM UTC
The Dreamers©
I think oft what it would be like to be one of them
To look at the world through rose colored glasses
Where the world is perfect according to my childhood dreams
In that dream I would be a pilot, handsome and tall
A world traveler to boot
I would be married to the girl next door
The vivacious blonde with that voluptuous figure
Somehow as if by magic I would be rich as well as famous
My model looks would have me featured in a magazine
This would be a follow up to my bestselling book which is
Now being turned into the greatest movie of all time
The movie is a documentary about my days as a rock star
It would highlight my younger years
As a pro athlete and renowned artist extraordinaire
The captivating television interview for my hit movie
Held at my countryside estate overlooking the ocean
It is prominently featured in Homes & Gardens magazine
Having won the lottery my days are filled with
Time to spend with family and friends at will
Or inventing the greatest next best thing
My ideal children seemingly raise themselves
To become childhood prodigies
When I come back to reality in my modest home
Readying myself to go to my everyday job
And writing poetry waiting to be discovered
I wonder “Is this as good as it gets”
Andreas Simic©
Sep 20, 2017
Sep 20, 2017 at 12:47 PM UTC
Though barely clad,
He was fully attired
With chocolates of mud,
Which even pasted
A leg-burrow
Of a small
Walking scarecrow,
What a sorrow!
A sore -eyed
And malnourished child
That developed
A leg bandy
'cause buckling from
A pot-belly
Subject to ailments every
Prominently Kwashiorkor
And scurvy
By twist of fate
Pushed out
To the street
To sleep he used
By every bus-stand,
An orphan boy, poor
Showered with
A heavy downpour!
A biting cold untold
With a face
Smile wrinkled
He weathered,
Despite an urge
For a morsel of bread.
A dog rabid, moreover
He was chased
From every nook and corner!
Mixed with boys of his kind
From the street
For freedom with a bent,
One night
To the bone chilled
By a cold wind
On the morrow dead
He was found!
The sought for warmth
He acquired in his death!
Yet fellow citizens
Are busy to take note
To hundreds of his sort!
It is surprising indeed
No one gives a heed
To the challenge of God
"Have you visited
Your brother in need?"
Apr 13, 2015
Apr 13, 2015 at 10:18 AM UTC
While you watched me watch you watch me,
your eyes darted back and forth,
inspecting my left eyelid, my right eyebrow,
my left pupil, my right iris.
Your brow furrowed, an involuntary smile
creeping across your face
gave away your intentions.
Our noses touching
you leaned forward, turned your head
slightly, narrowly missing collision
and pressed your lips to mine, slow,
with passion, conviction.
The corners of your mouth turned up,
our eyelashes engaged in whispered conversation,
our fingers twisted together,
sharing secrets through squeezes and taps.
You moved closer, our hips
touching, your arms
wrapped all the way around
my tiny frame, your breath
slow and even and sharp with desire
and anticipation, saying without saying,
"I want to be closer, can we be closer,
can you hear me, do you feel it."
I rolled my ankles and stretched my
toes, lengthening my body and leaning
on your bones, kissing you softly
in the spaces made for quiet brushes and
accidental contact, my hair on your neck
tickling and shaking and making silent
promises. I buried my face in your
chest, wanting to be inside this feeling,
wanting to put it in a jar and to display it
prominently for all to see.
That night we lay together caught,
swaddled and sheets and lost in
each other, starry eyed, content.
Lost, but not alone.
Explorers.
Wanderers.
Adventurers.
Separate in satisfaction until we awoke,
grasping for hands and moving closer still,
ecstatic in clutched embrace,
emphatic in anticipation for contact to come,
euphoric in a sea of effortless ease,
and content in the lazy morning,
tracing shapes,
feeling the world in tiny twitches,
subtle movements.
While I watched you watch me watch you,
my eyes darting back and forth,
a sly grin slowly appeared
and I pulled you closer.
Aug 29, 2013
Aug 29, 2013 at 12:22 PM UTC