Tell me, what do you think about when
the debutante moon has lost her charm
and there's nothing on TV to keep you up past 11 o'clock?
Do your eyes glaze over, remembering
how I used to hold your head on my knee and rake my
fingers through your yellow hair, baby?
Does your chest burn like a joint in the night with
the absurd memory of my mouth pressed to your
shadowy abdomen under turquoise plastic stars?
David, it was heaven, making you come undone!
You were dirty and beautiful; a clean-cut
little show choir first date gone wrong.
And I know I said you weren't my type
*I guess this is my version of a love letter :) the title is from my all-time favorite book by Nick Burd.
Dear perpetual stranger,
In august, I saw you at a neighborhood get-together
and though we both said it was stupid and boring,
the truth is I didn't mind because your irises were
filled with buttery gingerbread and your Clark Kent
type smile made me feel like I wasn't a sad story,
doing somersaults through the summer.
Trailer park flowers grow outside your front door,
but I walk up the road leading to it
with excitement ramming in my chest because
Reputation is a cruel, deceiving thing
with dark humor in its smile.
Your shirt sleeve rolls up and people
start chattering about your
tattoo but all I can focus on
is the sinewy peach stretch of skin on your bicep.
It excites me like a cold shower at blistering noon
or walking across a bridge during rush hour traffic.
Anyway, what is wrong with the fact
that you believe love should hang
from a Tim Burton type of tree?
Attraction comes at us
like a freight train in eastern Iowa;
merciless and unstoppable in its
race against time and judgment,
not letting us breathe
I pull up in his dad's driveway and
the boy sitting on the stoop looks
like Saint Exupery's treasured little prince
with subtle stars smeared on his face and neck.
When he climbs inside my used Sentra,
I tell him about this quirky realization.
"You're both so cute and opinionated."
He grins and replies that it's his favorite book
to read when life is particularly rough.
Cappuccino sips and playful shoves
convert the evening into something
brilliantly unstable and devastatingly 'teenager'.
I want to kiss him violently so we can stop this
annoying game of cat and mouse.
So... I've been crying for the past twenty minutes over my ex girlfriend who dumped me back in March...
I just feel like a failure; I spent three years trying to help her get over her social anxiety and I dropped everything for her and it still wasn't good enough. If I was in a relationship with someone else I'd drop it the moment she said she still loved me, I disassociated myself from my family because they never approved of us, and she still just dropped me like I was nothing...
My woeful sapphic life
so hidden and tragic, yet so free
she is my ungotten fruit
I do not know why, but I have had this insatiatable craving of creating poetry all day. It might possibly be because of my own discovery of a few poems I had done a couple months back, very random poems, that perfectly and appropriately fit my favorite poetic prose style known as Sapphic Stanza.
'if you stay out here in the cold all night, you'll die.' you said, taking my hand in yours, bringing my fingers to your lips. 'your hands are like ice.' i didn't look up at you because, although my hands may have been cold, your touch made the rest of me catch on fire.
Just a bit of 411 for the community at large -
We've decided to come out of the closet instead of trying to cover it up, which would never work anyway. Besides, many of you already know. So here it is:
Gregory my best friend in S.F. says i should start writing the story in my head. SO HERE GOES! This is just the beginning, this work will probably be very very very long. I have no idea what to call it, but it is what it is. Hope you enjoy it!