your seraphim veins

poetic_star's picture

*inspired by this quote: "Love is not moral or immoral. It just is," from City of Ashes by Cassandra Clare.*

Firewood crackles in your eyes,
glowing like a pretty little swearword.
And I ask where you came from, lover;
from the aging spring moon or
the shipyards outside of town
where we found each other
that first night when your
hands were cold around my waist and
my breaths were coming out
in impatient gasps of poetic escapism
as you kissed me under
the street lamp pretense
of wanting to head on home?

Are we just a little too far gone,
lost in a swirl of colorful smoke
in some Wonderland type of game
where we're both so young and stupid,
thinking we can make anything erupt in flames;
dried out candle wicks, life, each others' dreams?

It's silly and dishonest but
I need you inside me to
feel awake and maybe
that's what makes me a loser;
the fact that I keep wanting more.

But love is not gritty or soft;
streaming rays over empty
dishes in the morning or
enshrouding the loft in darkness
when one of us locks the door.
It just is and nobody can
claim or touch what so
easily slips through
their careless fingers.

Boy, let me know if
I'm taking this too far.
Let me know if you're
only here because of
how my body feels;
warm and vulnerable
like a country sunset
when I'm surrounded
by your arms on the Italian sofa.

I can do better if I were
to just calm down but
heat courses through
your rural veins into mine,
the toned lines of your
shoulders and stomach
making me feel strong
only by approximation.
But I know you're the hero
in this screwed-up melodrama
that'll never hit Broadway.
Yet, I don't care.
No, I don't give
a damn what other think
about my inexperience
because you pull me
closer, anyway.

Sunspots play
tag along your spine.
If I close my eyes and
lay back down,
I can feel you all around me;
hard edges and stolen beats,
a wasteland of collarbones
and last September skin.

But Tuesday is a melancholy
affair here in this show-me
state of bliss we're in and
it's just a matter of time
before you tell me I'm
turning you into someone new.
Whether that's good or bad,
I don't know yet but
everything we say,
we mean in the drunken spark
of a mother-of-pearl dawn.
So pull me closer now, anyway.