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

I would not

I would not leave your heart to dwell
in any other sacred place,
than the nearest I can feel its beat,
as close to the noises mine too makes.

I would not hold your hand in mine
if it did not fit with perfect sense,
if our fingers clasped so tightly there,
met with the smallest, slightest pretense.

I would not steal your kiss today
only to tell you I must go,
I hold it on my lips and neck,
in the safest place I know.

I would not say I love you
if in the words no solemnity lie,
I say them, my love, in sincerest of breaths,
as can only be spoken of you and I.

Woman, completely

When I walk down the street
with my womanly swagger,
the men they all turn as if
something’s the matter,
I don’t bat my eyes,
or swivel my hips,
I don’t flip my hair,
or pucker my lips,
but they can’t resist me,
so womanly,
so completely
a woman.

I stroll into a bar,
not flirty, but casual,
I smile ‘cause I smile,
I laugh ‘cause I’m funny,
I can make you feel easy,
that I’ll promise you, honey

So don’t get all bothered,
when resist you cannot,
it’s no fault of yours,
it’s simply what I’ve got,
because sexy is sexy,
and beauty is all me,
I’m so womanly,
so completely
a woman.

Beautiful

Beautiful.
I love that beautiful is all relative,
I love that you could look at a work of art and say “That is really something”, and I could look at that very same piece of artistic prowess and say “Meh”,
I love that your beautiful is not my beautiful,
but that his beautiful may match her beautiful and what they’ll have will be so beautiful that they’ll think back on what they USED to think was beautiful, and say “man, what were we thinking?”

Beautiful is inclusive and exclusive at the same time,
for example, we might say colors are beautiful, but we all know what happens when you mix together every color in your paint set,
yeah, you get that murky, brown, puke-y color that most people would never define as beautiful.
Or how a triple-chocolate cake is beautiful,
but a triple-chocolate cake with some gasoline drippings added for flavor is nooooot so beautiful,

I want an internet where every time you google “beautiful” a different picture parades itself across the screen,
b-e-a-u-t-i-f-u-l, click, and you see a picture of a pig-tailed little girl on a summer night,
sitting on a fencepost, licking an ice cream cone that drips from her wrists to her ankles,
or click,
and it’s a grey-haired couple, hand in hand on a rose-lined path,
and it’s clear that their steps were lighter in earlier years when their knees weren’t arthritic and they’d seen fewer wars,
but it doesn’t matter, because they still have each other.
Sometimes I think we’re losing touch with what beautiful really means,
with Botox, and latex, and lift this, and plump that,
we need to return to the understanding that skin deep is
not deep enough to define the depths of beautiful,
that surgeries, and eye creams, hair implants, and hours at the gym won’t change the fundamental, rudimentary potential for beautiful that lies within each of us,
I wish I could amass all the beautiful in the whole world,
roll it together into one breathtaking ball of awesome and
air-lift it to the top of mount everest,
and there it would sit, where it would emanate equally waves of beautiful throughout every dirt, gravel, or paved street, so every last person got their fair share of beautiful every single day,
so every individual could say,
Wow,
I experienced beautiful in the most beautiful way.