this lil love of mine
"Love Is A Smoke Raised With The Fume Of Sighs." - Shakespeare
Truly, love is a powerful force to behold. As is the search for love. Equal parts tender and brutal. Not unlike boxing, where a fighter has to first put themselves in the ring. After all, you can't win if you're not even playing. But rare is the fighter or lover who wins their first match. Usually there is a period of trial and error, a period of adjustment if you will, as we get knocked down again and again. Persistent to win our prize we get back up and in the ring. Disillusioning ourselves that every game will be better next time. Lust and love allow us to authentically discover ourselves and others. Therein lies the prize.
When you say something stupid
Unfolded off hand.
Feet cold in the autumn air.
The sliver of moon proceeded over the confessional,
Laid out to be judged like a stale holiday feast.
Apprehensive stolen glances.
Searching for understanding.
Fingers pressed together in solemn contemplation.
Anxiety seeps, as our tea goes cold.
Uncertainty clouds the room,
Pressing us out,
To escape into our own conclusions.
I went to dallas
The routine of work, the scheduled tasks at hand, the familiar-ness of the day kept my mind from lingering on you.
Packing, showering, a cab ride, lines, hellos, how are yous, good thank yous, civil courtesies, and patience, and annoyance bogging down the mind. Numbing all memory of you. Until the plane ride.
Until I sat down. Until I caught my breath. Until I folded my ankles over one another and clasped my hands in my lap. Staring at my own body, so foreign to me. A peculiar sensation, rooted in me since last night. Since I last saw you.
Numbness ensues again within the schedule. Exiting, smiling, helping, ignoring, waiting, rotating through the glass doors. As the heat unfolded, rolling over me like a towel thrown over your face after a dip in the pool, in the dead of summer, my cheeks were engulfed by the change, the difference. Cool to hot. Dry to moist. I embrace it, flushed recalling your touch, your presence, consuming me physically not so long ago. Your hands firm yet gentle. Your touch soft on my skin but with determined forcefulness. Your masculinity intoxicating.
A faint sensation,
Of a memory long faded,
But softly stirring the air still,
With the magic that is you.
Aware of the warmth of my body.
Skin chilled by the breeze.
I was nervous of looking unraveled,
But selfishly delighting in the feel of the moment - of that VERY then.
I saw you in all black, my heart raced.
A PHONE CALL
As we teeter totter lust and interests,
Searching for commonality,
We fold our hands,
To course another game entirely.
We reap what we sow
Consequences to render, I pay my toll repeatedly
for indulging in love too young.
For sowing love in all the wrong gardens.
I silently reap my harvest, gathering it into my arms,
clutched close to my heart. I reflect on what I have.
What should I pluck, or cut, or uproot and kill?
What gathered here in my embrace can sustain me?
Should I put you in a vase to admire?
Should I give you away, and out of my sight?
Should I cut you up to be boiled and simmered,
evaporating into the pores of my kitchen?
Should I bury you in my bed under layers of cozy blankets?
Should I learn to hate you and set you on fire?
Perhaps I should put you in a box tucked back in a corner,
to be forgotten?
This is much more serious.
I think I will eat you. I will gobble you up, every last bit.
And you will pass through me.
I will feel your journey and own it.
I will not bring you back up.
I will not force you out too quick.
I will let you pass, at your own speed.
We will be closer than ever.
Absorbing all the dry summers and early frosts.
I know the seasons intimately now. I can stop guessing.
I found my garden and it whispers to me,
beckoning to be pruned.
Bishes Be Bitter
What do you suppose I am?
Is my optimistic facade so cheerful as to wash away your insecurities, your inferiority, your feelings of inadequacy? Will I skip around you and make it all go away? Surely you do not suppose me a sorceress?
Waving my arms through the air, magicking your ideals into realities? That would be silliness. Do you believe me tolerant of all your misgivings? Of all your broken promises? Do you suppose I will forgive you?