LOVE POEM #83 – PDA

Most people wrinkle their noses

at the sight of us swapping spit,

or they avert their jealous eyes

to an embrace held for too long.

 

Some will even holler at us

not knowing we came from a room

that we rented at a the hotel

where, as now, their cries went unheard.

——

 

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LOVE POEM #82 – RECKLESS

The mistake of falling for you

was the finest mess I’ve made

between the hours of four and five

in these reckless temporal mornings.

 

It was like riding on a runaway train

in the red-orange twilight sky

after a rainfall had left the tracks

a treacherous mass of rust.

——

 

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THIRST

The thick pool of blood soaked through his pant legs as he knelt. A ravenous thirst had overtaken him, as it did everyone eventually. He scooped palmfuls to his face, lapping at it as it trickled down his wrist like a dog. In death, he had never felt so alive.

——

 

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LOVE POEM #65 – AT THE RESTAURANT

The world feels so still

in the restless banter of the restaurant

where the TV is blaring

and no one is staring

at us, sitting in the middle of a haze

waiting to whisper words

through the puffs of smoke.

——

 

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THE SECOND HEARTBREAK

I still remember my first heartbreak. I was a child of ten, sitting on our dirty house sofa, watching Avatar: the Last Airbender. It was the episode where Aang loses Appa to the sand benders, and the weight of loneliness crept in at the edges of anger. In between the scratches of static on the TV, I could feel the enormity of losing a loved on for the first time sinking in through the empathy of my being as this beloved titan of the cartoon world was carted away into enslavement.

I felt my legs shake, and the hollowness of my house that evening began to feel much larger than it ever had before. Dad was on a flight to New York, and mom wouldn’t be back from work until bedtime. As the credits rolled, I stumbled over to the TV, and clicked the OFF button, then slumped to the floor in a pile of depression. How could someone take his love away like that? Didn’t they consider how that made him feel? Why would anyone be so cruel? By the time the key to the door finally turned in the lock and my mother entered the house, I had accepted that some people do not consider the feelings of others, and act selfishly.

I would have thought that such strong emotions would have prepared me for the first time I caught my partner cheating, five years later. I had taken up basketball, which we played after school every day at the courts next to our campus. The girl I was dating then would come watch us play every day until her mother picked her up. One day, I decided to surprise her with a group of flowers I had collected, before the practice. I asked the teacher if I could leave early and everything. I went to the flower garden, and picked the nicest five roses I could find—four red and one striking white. I rushed over to the quad her class was located in, took a seat on a bench outside her vision so I could run up and surprise her, and waited until the bell rang. When it did, I could feel jitters of excitement crawling through my veins. It was so perfect.

But when the door to her classroom opened, I saw her walk out with another guy. Tall, white, classically handsome. They were both laughing. I kept my distance. She’d never talked about someone like this, but they were walking toward the courts together. Eventually, they came to the corridor just before the court I played on. It was after practice would have started, about three minutes before she usually trotted out to meet me.

They just started going at it, like wolves ravenous for each other’s face. He pinned her against the wall, one hand in hers, the other gripping her backside, all the while she was breathing so hard I could hear it from my hiding space. He turned her around, and pressed up against her, kissing her neck and grinding against her hips. They were completely fearless of any onlookers, like they had done this a dozen times with no problems. When she fell to her knees, and brought her hands to his belt buckle, I decided I couldn’t take it anymore. My stomach was spinning with disgust, the pain in my chest felt like someone had stabbed my lungs, and tears were building up in my eyes with the hacking sobs that claim distressed children.

I snapped a quick picture, which I have come to regret, of the mouthful she had, then walked down the hall past them to practice, completely stone-faced. No words, no recognition—I didn’t want to give her the satisfaction of knowing she mattered. She stood up faster than a cat in a thunderstorm, pushing him away from her and apologizing. But her words fell on deaf ears. People were selfish. I knew that.

——

 

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LOVE POEM #56 – WAITING FOR THE RAIN

Standing outside the cinema, waiting for the rain

is the perfect way to fall in love with someone.

 

First of all, it means there are a lot of people

trying to buy tickets for a brand new movie.

Crowds always seem to bring people closer together

and there, bundled up nice, breathing in the cool air,

is a great time to crack a few inside jokes.

 

Secondly, when the first few droplets finally land

you have the chance to offer her your jacket.

It’s such a simple gesture, but it brings warmth

in a way that walking inside doesn’t quite have.

Especially since the first few drops of water

always seem to land on the tip of her nose.

 

And then you go inside and see a movie or whatever.

 

Until the last moments of the date arrive

where you both walk out those big double doors

and see that the downpour paused just for you.

She’s talking about the movie, but you’re distracted

because you’ve never seen eyes light up like hers.

 

And then it’s time to go,

and you realize that you really don’t want to.

You wish you could tie a rope to those seconds

where the inevitable awkward pause arrives

and just stay there, tethered to it

like a buoy is tethered to an anchor

so that it doesn’t float off into the ocean all alone.

——

 

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THE PAINTING MODEL

“Hey, would you model for me?” he stammered. She was walking through the hallway as he spoke, on her way out the door.

“What?” She said to him, turning on her tall, black heels sharply. His cheeks reddened, and he felt his ears grow hot.

“I-I said, would y-you model for me?” Her eyebrows raised behind her oversized Chanel sunglasses, and she cocked her head to the left. “I was thinking about how er…what you said earlier, about how people had called you Amber Rose, and how…um…how you didn’t like that people said that because they never had anything to show for it.”

“And…?” There was a light impatience in her voice.

“And well, um, I was thinking that maybe I could, like, paint you or something?” He exhaled deeply, and the vibrant red that had filled his cheeks washed away. He looked down at the ground, ashamed, as the room filled with silence.

One…

Two…

Three…

The words floated through his mind like wooden planks down the Nile. Then, she clucked her tongue once and tapped her heel.

“I’ll think about it,” and she turned to walk out the door with half a smile. He listened in stunned silence as she walked down the hall, each clack of her heels fell with the same heaviness as the beat of his heart.

 

*          *          *

 

He scrabbled with the lock on the door; his arms were filled with bags and his myriad of keys were all jumbled together. When he finally got it open, he hoisted the bags up higher so he didn’t accidentally let one slip.

“Hi there,” he heard from around the corner. He walked in, set the bags down on the counter, and began unpacking

“Hello again, I picked up a few jugs of—” his eyes drifted up and his voice caught in his throat. She was standing in the room, fully exposed save for an exceptionally tiny bikini. He looked back to the contents of the bags, “I-I picked up a few containers of milk this weeks since everyone went through it so fast.” She laughed at him.

“Thank you,” she said, “I decided you can paint me—”

“I didn’t quite mean—”

“You didn’t mean today? Good. I wanted to spend this afternoon tanning.”

“Well I was thinking I could paint you, perhaps, in a little different setting?” He had turned to face her, and could feel the heat in his body rising.

“Oh?” She said. After a quick pause, her eyes lit up, and she reached behind her back to undo her top, “nude? I’m game to do nude.” His cheeks burned inside him and he turned his head away.

“No I was thinking something that didn’t…objectify you so much? Maybe something like sleepwear?” There was a silence. He felt the air grow cold around them. Then, roughly, she grabbed his chin with her thumb and forefinger and turned him to look at her.

“You want to paint me right?” She asked firmly.

“Yes,” He tried to look away.

“And why do you want to do that, hmm?” she pulled him closer to her, so that they were within a few inches of each other.

“Well I—”

“What, do you want to fuck me?” He tried to pull away but her grip was tight, “you want to fuck me? Turn me over, lay me out? You think coddling me with kind words and romantic pictures will seduce me?” Her thumb pressed harder into his chin. “Let’s get this straight. You won’t fuck me because you’re nice to me. You won’t fuck me because you’re mean to me. If you fuck me, it’ll be because I want you to.” She glanced down meaningfully. “And you’ll paint me how I want to be painted. Not how you want. Not how some man wants. Me. Ok?”

“Ok.” He said. She released his chin and smiled.

“Good,” she snaked up and kissed him softly on the cheek, then turned to walk away, twirling her top in her hand, “tomorrow it is then!” she called back, and put a hand up to wave goodbye.

——

 

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LOVE POEM #45 – LOUNGING

Picture that night,

Lounging with Bob Dylan

Neil Young, and Louie.

Quite a night to be alone

Together.

 

The dark, hazy room,

Filled with a slight tinge

Of cool-blue smoke,

Where time passed

At a walk, not a run.

 

That’s the place I want to go back to,

A night before the fights,

Before the jealousy;

Before we were consumed

By the need to be adults,

And we could just be people.

 

Laying on the L-couch,

With our heads cradled together,

Our glazed eyes watched

While the ceiling spun ‘round,

 

Can you remember it, dear?

The distance in your eyes

Was an adventure then,

Not a plague.

You were so beautiful,

So alive, so calm.

 

Can you remember it?

I can.

 

I can still smell

The midnight air

Drifting through the window.

I can still hear

The chorus chanting,

“Keep me searching

and I’m growin’ old.”

 

I can still see you,

Lying there like a rose,

Red-lipped and thorny.

I can even taste the wine

That lingered on your lips.

What a night that was.

Can you remember?

 

If only you could.

——

 

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LOVE POEM #44 – DUSTED CONSTELLATIONS

Look out the window,

I made that for you.

That low-hung half-moon,

Golden brown and smiling.

You remind me of it…

Or rather, it reminds me of you.

That beacon in the darkness,

Between the starlight,

Swaying with the sounds

Of smooth jazz in the night.

I can see you in her

On lonely nights.

On the broken porch steps,

The chill autumn breeze

Swirls along our fingertips,

Edging us closer.

I want to dance.

Take my hand,

Let me guide you

Across the sky tonight.

The two of us,

Dusted,

With wine on our lips,

Make for a lovely constellation.

Exhaustion.

Star gaze with me,

My little star girl.

So full of life;

So full of light.

Lie with me a minute,

And let eternity pass us by.

There’s no arms I’d rather call home.

——
 
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LOVE POEM #39 – APHRODITE

I wish you could see yourself

How I see you. It seems your eyes

Dim the reflection in your mirror,

And somehow

That luscious, golden smile, and

That blazing fire in your soul,

Becomes an extinguished charcoal

That’s full of imperfections.

And yet to me, you are anything

But imperfect.

 

There is no star as shiny;

No flower so sweet;

No winter could stymie

Your summer-like heat.

Your smile could make oceans

Weep rain to the skies;

Your heart’s like a potion

That makes brittle men spry.

Your lips are like a drug—

An addition I can’t shake,

And at night when I am snug,

Cravings for you make me wake.

 

Yet all of these are things you cannot see,

For unknown reasons, you think you can’t be

As beautiful as you appear to me,

And yet I would call you Aphrodite.

 

And were I Paris, I’d not hesitate

To set that golden apple on your plate,

Because no one is as perfect as you,

Even if you take yourself for a shrew.

——

 

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