wanted more my/your play than my/my/my play
i don’t always make good decisions at 2am
wanted more my/your play than my/my/my play
i don’t always make good decisions at 2am
My hands are in your hair
And my heart is in my throat.
What I miss most
Are the inbetween moments
Things that pass
Between love and lust
Soft of night
Till early morning
In lazy embrace
Every expression of tenderness
Your tired eyes betray
Lighter than air
Kisses I still crave.
We only play at being adults
Trying on age like dress-up clothes.
You grow shy of the questions
But I am not afraid
Of the answers
My tongue’s just scratching
At the surface
Kitten licks against your ear
Searching for the echoes
She left behind
Her tickles were just training
For the marks
I’ll carve into your skin.
You pulled the truth
In tiny bits
But you could not
Swallow me whole—
You lucky boy
Finding depths to drown in
Weight that strains
Your arms
This love will not
Let you be weak
Train your heart like
The muscle it is
You know you want
Another bite.
Your lips left
A dozen purple galaxies
On my skin and
Every time I looked
In the mirror
I felt as beautiful
As the night sky.
It has to be a lie
Those sweet things
You say
Don’t tease me
When I hide
Burying my face
In soft pillowcase
I’ve heard too many
Songs and read
Too many novels
To believe
What you say
Is true
Pretty girls
Don’t spend their
Birthdays alone
No no
It can’t be true
If I was beautiful
I wouldn’t have
Been forced
To wait so long
For you.
Wait
Do not chase
Do not wear the soles of your shoes
Down on boys
Who won’t cradle your feet
In their laps
Do not waste
Your words
Exhaust your tongue
In the silent poetry
Of kisses
On those
Who don’t exhale
Your name
Like a prayer
Wait.
A bit creatively drained lately.
Beauty in the temporary
Fingers forging sonnets
Tongues tracing odes
That disappear before dawn
Ephemeral blush
Fleeting touch
Story arch in curving spine
Verses part
A poem dissolves
Skin returning to bare sheet.
At the end of each year
She set her journals on fire
Stood back and watched
As flames ate once precious paper
Releasing the nightmares
She had trapped in ink—
Praying the smoke would
Carry her words to the stars.
These will be the moments
You regret
The ones you wish
You could forget
But my footsteps are echoing
In the hallway and you’re too
Tired to get out of bed
You will call me later
Ask me what I was wearing
Wishing to reinvent memories
Of the curve of my back
As the elevator closed and
I didn’t turn around
Cold shoulder to your words
Of wait
Of no
Of not yet
But it’s all inside your head
You didn’t regret
My going
For weeks.
I always see you
As if through clouded glass
The pictures come through
Distorted but discernible
But the sound is trapped
On the other side
I see your head nodding
Your lips moving
Fingers tap to chords and lyrics
Music I wish I could hear—
But we’re different vibrations
Always out of synch.
Hand me the shears
Turn Samson beneath my fingers
Let me steal your vitality
With the whisper of scissors
Your superior size dissipates
Beneath light touch
Tilt your head forward, darling
I need a better grasp
Of your neck, fingers laced
Touch like a drug
You don’t need anything but this.
It’s intoxication in reverse
Your presence loosens my lips
Inebriation in the finest
Just from your eyes on mine
A sip of wine and I grow quiet
Pull away
I only wanted to drink you in.
I tried to draw the picture
With words
Conjuring image to mind
With a few brief lines
But my vision has blurred
All the verbs slur together
Little white lies on the page
Slipping beneath covers
Blinded from the world.
I shall take your misery
And pen a story about it
You’ll never be happy
But you will be a poem.
I like the drive home
The drive away from you
2 am on country roads
With only my headlights
To see
Pitch blackness in my rear-view
Reminds me
Not to look back
A local radio station
Plays a mix of jazz
Soothing static
As my thoughts condense
What was that you said
I don’t know what it meant
Still miles to go
Before I slip into bed
My roommates will never
Suspect
The trail your fingers left
Will be off my skin
By breakfast time
I’ve got miles to go
To collect my head.
INTJ actually; blogs/poems tend to show one side of a personality. :)