Her

She is the kind of girl men fall in love with.
She is the kind of girl who makes
women question their loyalties.
She is the girl with the softest hair
and the shapeliest thighs,
her smile begs attention,
and her eyes, god,
her eyes tell you all
you love and hate
and wish you could change about yourself.
And when she walks?
Well, she certainly does not walk.
She glides
like liquid-sexuality,
and her head does not
sit atop her neck as most do,
but floats, instead, above her shoulders,
as if a love song sways permanently
on her lips.
And her hips?
Her hips bend in perfection
and shame the most luxurious sensuality.
Yes, her beauty flows in waves,
and her words are deliberate,
and she listens,
and you are the most important
person
in the entire world.

If you love me

If you love me like a mountain,
which mountain?
If you love me like the ocean,
is it the warm Pacific or the cool Atlantic?
If you love me wide as this galaxy
and tall as Babel’s tower,
if you love me deep as a canyon
and heavy as rainforest showers,
Then please,
love me only as real as the morning.
And if you love me
(truly)
love me like a country road,
or a reddish rose,
like a wooden barn
or warm, woolen scarves,
Love me like slow jazz,
like afternoon naps,
like wind-blown hair
and white-washed rocking chairs.
And if you love me
(truly)
love me simply,
without selfish similes
and lofty metaphors,
just
love me.

promise

I want to feel your skin so badly.
I want it like green grass,
like fresh blueberries,
like mother’s crock-pot dinner.

I want your lips on my lips,
and my hips moving
to a radio skipping
while never noticing
passing sirens.

And though they say
sparks will wane inevitably,
I will always carry flint,
and I will make flames,
and I will write love poems,
and I most certainly will not
forget
how it feels to be
in love.

I left you a letter

I left you a letter.
I hope you'll find it upon waking.
I hope you read it aloud in my voice
with my halted punctuation.
I hope you feel the words
as I meant them,
and digest them slowly
gradually
deliberately.
I hope you won’t misunderstand
or mistake my metaphors
for coldness,
please read the prepositions as closely
as the nouns,
do not (even for a second)
believe any sensual phrase
was meant to offend or mystify,
but do (in every second)
read my words
knowing every prose I lay
every simile as sweet
does not compare
to your dark eyes in presence,
your humming so deep,
or your hand so softly ‘neath my head.

Commando

I always knew I was too......free for you.
You said, I can’t BELIEVE you’re going commando,
and I said, well I may not be wearing panties,
but at least I have command over my finances,
jesus, why worry about underpants when
you can’t even balance a checkbook!

You were so stuffy,
and I licked fluffy frosting from cupcakes,
while you counted calories and shook an accusing finger
at my curvy hips,
and you made lists of things to do while I dreamt of
sea-faring on the south seas,
and sub-saharan safaris, and salads with so many
ingredients that they more or less became stew.
And you were always in such a hurry,
and I’d say, darling, don’t worry,
everything will be just fine,
‘cause you’re all mine,
and I would never let you be late for your movie time,
and that was what you did,
you sweated the small stuff,
and me? Well you always knew that I was
unable to say no,
and that spot behind my ear
pretty much sealed the deal, dear,
but it wasn’t always about sex, no, if it were,
then things probably would have turned out terrific,
no, it was about you not seeing me,
and about me needing to be touched
in a certain way that said -hey, I missed you today-
I didn’t need to hear it ALL the time, just once in a while,
I didn’t care if you could tell when my hair was different,
or I got a new dress,
I wanted you to get off the couch when I came home
from a long weekend away, and sweep me into your arms,
but instead you played Halo on X-Box Live,
and I got grumpy, and you told me to chill out,
so you moved out,
and I moved on,
but now there’s new movement on your front,
because you’re saying it’s all changed now,
that things are different somehow,
but I’m afraid you can’t change the core of something,
of someone,
you are always going to be angry, and pessimistic,
and just generally unhappy,
and I’m always going to be,
well, I’m always gonna see purples where you see greys,
and today, will always be my favorite day,
and if you see an ass showing panty lines,
you can bet money, sir, that ass is not mine.

to describe your stars

to describe your stars,
to write of your satellites,
to replay just one fine melody,
there exist not enough letters
for words
and not the notes
for a single chord,
futile to relay your loveliness
through speech,
and your hands,
an aimless attempt
it would be to
speak of your hands

if it be your liking (as it is mine),
I rather would hear you
sing me sweetly under moonshine
and rest those hands
under this love’s curls,
etch your star language on
my heart so never may I
lose its translation