I’m hardly through the door and you’re littering kisses across my cheeks like rapid fire questions.
Hasty;
I have yet to be briefed on the topic of discussion and you’re touching thighs like the spotlights seeping embers in your veins.
Like it leaves white, puckering burn maps in places I’ve already romanticized.
You’re an explorer,
inquiring about the days and weeks we’ve been apart
but with a palette of soft grabs and sleepy toned eyes;
no cartography, geography, needed.
Your neck nips turn me to gold so malleable I feel weightless under you,
over you,
you could transmute me paper thin.
I’m a brassy liquid (atomic mass 196.96),
once solidified but now puddled at your front step.
My clothes pile at my feet like ragged snake skin and I shake the pollen from my pores .
Now I’m raw,
and your hand is at the small of my back,
rested in my dimple and coaxing me in.
Your breath blazes sooty fires down,
down,
down my stomach line and I see the coal-black trail you’ve left here
and there;
I’ve never felt more beautiful.
I’ve never felt more in love with these ashy elbows and ebony under eyes.
I want to curse myself because I’ve hardly been here a minute and you’ve enthralled me past audible hellos and tricked me into kissed chattings of “how have you been” and “i’ve missed you sos”.
Your hands lick fire at my waist line
and all at once you’ve diffused any plans I had for a proper greeting.
I hardly mind cause you’ve made me into gold.
(Source: whispaer)
I’m sure that years could pass and you’d still be as relevant as the blueberry stain I left on my wooden kitchen table today.
Even after its brown black rotted on the curb of my driveway,
legs folded, cracked and ridged from summer storms,
that little blueberry dot, purple and punctual, would forever reflect the face
of you and your relevance,
and an omnipresence I can’t scrub away.
(Source: whispaer)
I look at you and there are no maybes,
only mutual mornings
and moonshine in your slumber eyes.
(Source: whispaer)
My mother always said to never depend on anyone but yourself for what you want and what you need. I found that the problem with that, is its objectivity, and its relativity. She never told me what to do when what you need, and what you want, is someone other than yourself. I don’t think she ever considered that, but I don’t think she figured I’d turn out to be a poet either: sensitive, and enamored with couplets,little murmurings, not at all what she conditioned out of me.
They’re the worst kind of people, poets, splintered and swollen all at the same time, stuck in paradoxes like they’re a golden comb honey. They’re helpless people really, the muddied type. They’ll tell you you’re beautiful simply because they find paragraphs in the way your left leg extends slightly farther than the right when you walk, and they’ll glory in the moments you take an extra three minutes to decide on your fast food order rather than the usual two. Simplicity, simplicity, is anything but simple to me, (and I wish you could see the depth in that).
After all, we’re everywhere kind of people, us poets, we’re in stale hand-me-downs and your breakfast grapefruit, in that silly little vase your aunt gave you as a last minute birthday present two years ago (Its olive paisley and we’ll make novels from it). We’ll take your words and make like Da Vinci on church room ceilings. Give me your ugly, we’ll take it, we want it. We dip below water medians and pull out head turns and shoulder twitches, petty feasible actions into incomprehensible flowerings. We’re alchemists, florists, chefs of all language. The language of you and me (I drew it out in constellations on your freckled back). The language of passing glances, and partially heard phone calls on subway platforms. We can’t help what we see in the every day nothings. They’re somethings to us, and they bubble to the tip of our tongues like a post storm algae.
We’re fickle people, us poets, we like our oatmeal only slightly warm and not at all dry. We like our touches ginger, and our whispers fracturing. We indulge in love with a Phaeton-like temptation. But leaning on a love of syllables is like depending on a poorly carved cane, you can’t expect to get anywhere in a timely manner .
(Source: whispaer)
He told me I was like an earl grey tea in the afternoon,
like the feeling of rubbing sleep away with the inside of your wrists.
Be careful with those words babe,
I fidgeted out of my sleep
under your morning kisses and bright eyed shoulder nips.
You’re like coffee grind smell,
like the cold of fresh sheets,
the caress of dew-mint grass.
I tallied the seconds it took for me to compose myself behind closed eye lids.
Fifteen.
Fifteen, fifteen, fifteen.
I opened to baby blue,
and some how solidified out of tongue tied,
be careful with your words babe.
(Source: whispaer)
You don’t wish for the things that I do,
or dream of the things that I do,
and sometimes I doubt that you ever would.
But there are those sometimes where I go as far to think that you might,
and I pretend that I can see the tide rolling in
and out of your eyes.
Like a velvet lullaby,
lulling away my wide-eye hours.
I pretend that I’ll hear your voice slip through the finger tips I press over your lips,
and I’ll pretend I can feel you pucker to mold my finger prints.
Sometimes I’m so good at pretending that I see no wrong,
only the light flowering over your shoulders,
and the flickering of your hands across my tummy pores.
You blind me acidly,
so that I dream up these soups, of wishes
and wants
and lusts
and musts.
You blind me so badly.
You blind me so badly that I’m deaf to your no,
no,
nos.
(Source: whispaer)
Its times like this where I sit legs crossed, pen in mouth, fingers ripping at split ends (identical to three hundred others in the same lecture room), that I take a moment to reflect on what I want. For a measly 18 years old, I find myself quite solidified in what I want and what I hope and what I am and I find that kind of impressive considering the indecisive recklessness I’ve seen in others. I know I want cloudless skies in my mind, and precipitation-free consequences when I let a cloud or two slip by. I want to breathe, and really breathe, I want to breathe out every ailment and wound I’ve ever inhaled. I want to walk with a warm wind on my back, and I want blossoms stuck in every sidewalk crack I skip over. Is that so much to ask for? I want my personal successes to be enough for my insatiable conscious and I want to make you proud. I think it’d kill me if you told me I was ordinary because I feel like anything but.
just a little blurb I wrote yesterday on my personal account.
I’m the kind of hopeless that leaves you wanting to do crazy things. The kind that has you staring down from window sills, lips pursed against the foggy glass membrane.Its the kind that leaves you wanting to cross the street a second too soon, or wade through dew littered fields with open toed shoes. I’m the kind of reckless that trickles, like the reckless that crawled over your face that early February. It danced between your eyelashes and fell upon your nose; it spilled into your lips and onto the palm I held over your heart. I flicked it between my trembling fingers and it spread from you to me, over my shoulders and down the small of my back. I slipped my legs between yours and laced my arms around your neck and that alone is reckless and hopeless is it not? You’re so fickle and so confident and so overwhelmed with a sense of detachment that I just can’t seem mimic; I feel it in the permanent stamp of your lips on my forehead and the whisper of your voice as you murmur goodmorning. You’re so enthralled and captured with kisses that I’m sure you didn’t hear the few reckless, hopeless words I breathed below your jawline. I’m so sure of it.
(Source: whispaer)
I think of you in seasons, and measurable currencies.
In meters and inches and miles,
You’re the sum of all the numerical distributions tallied on my skin,
In tens and twenties, in decimals and rusty pennies.
You’re in those sparsely filled teaspoons and embroidered coffee mugs,
Sloshed with tea on the bedside table.
You’re the summer sighs, and the hazy mornings I watched weather from pink to brassy gold on my front porch.
I think of you with every month in mind,
And every spectrum of laughter washed out like soap residue on my naked collar. I think of your
sea smiles plucking seashells and sand from my hair in early Fall and the red you stole from it in the late.
The seconds I spent chest to chest add up to days
And the days I spent kissing you are in the decades,
And everything else adds up to some irrelevant number that I’ve scrawled out with lingers and looks.
They say time you enjoy wasting,
Isn’t wasted time at all.
And who’s counting anyway?
(Source: whispaer)
We speak in a language all our own, words warped with whimsical murmurs. Its the language of underwater currents stealing away at sandbox toys and seashells, of your leather belt between my itching fingers. Its the language you speak with your head thrown back and the patience it takes to number every ridge in your neck. I whisper into your collarbone and laugh into your stomach. I write clauses with my hands meshed in your hair, and scribble sentences in kisses on your jawline.
If you’re a writer you touch people with words, you can spell all that they embody and all that they will be. If you’re a writer you have a language for every person. You see them in phonetics and kiss them knowing every pronunciation of what they will do when your lips part. You know the accented way that their hands will grip your sides to pull you in, and that eventually they’ll snake up just to come back down. You know the punctuation in the way i knot my hands around yours and the slight hold you keep on my palm. I don’t have to dot my I’s or cross my T’s with you, I don’t need a pen. Our language transcends any riddle or vaguely written poem, because when you’re a writer, you have a language for every person. And no one language is ever the same.
(Source: whispaer)
