I was exquisite petals.
Pink, dewy, delicate.
Your fingers opened me,
coaxed me into full bloom,
until I reddened with color,
dripped with honeyed nectar,
decorous with feminine plushness;
a gleaming pistil,
a pulsing filament.
I was this radiant bouquet,
rosy blossoms
in your artful hands.
I was a pretty ache,
geranium-scented,
my breasts budding,
legs spread,
hips splayed,
wet and open,
resplendent.
I was garlanded
with your kisses.
Adorned, adored;
I flowered.
When you returned,
the day felt bright
like new paint
and our forms freshly drawn
by the nimble hands
of God.
Our kisses were sweet
as spring strawberries,
dripping with juice.
We were lovers
once again,
refining and polishing
our art
like careful masters
on the canvas of tragic need
that is the body.
I was a mermaid
drowning
in the sea
of you,
in delicious oblivion.
You tasted
salty like my tears.
In your arms,
agony and ecstasy
seem to become
one and the same.
This week in celebration of Valentine’s Day I am sharing some of my poems offering different perspectives on love. This one speaks to the deep impression love makes on us.
Your lips are lines of a poem
indelibly written upon these breasts,
upon these hips,
like a tattoo or a scar,
an invisible mark I bear
upon my skin.
And when I decorate
the walls of my mind with stars,
those verses illuminate
like phosphorescence
in the glow of black light
and the lingering language
of your kiss
speaks to me again,
a satisfyingly long
and heartfelt ballad
that rhymes in all the right places
and transports this aching body
beyond words,
into the ecstatic agony
of memory.
In anticipation of Valentine’s Day, I will be sharing some of my poems that offer different perspectives on love. This one shows the lighter side of love, it’s ability to transform us with its glow into into something brighter and more vibrant. Tomorrow’s post: the dark side of love.
Before I die, will I think
of making love
to you?
When I have swam
through the eternal sea
of life’s consciousness,
and endless memories are bubbling up
from murky depths,
will I run the fingers of my mind
over the faded photograph
of your eyes?
Will the scent of your skin
fill the intangible air
of my thoughts?
My love, I want to let you go.
But I may wish
to feel your lips on mine
one more time.
why did my heart bloom
when you kissed me and tasted
like water and sun
You were sitting across from me
in a booth at the Pho place,
your noodles eaten,
your bowl almost empty,
and you leaned back,
tired, sank into the vinyl seat,
and a particular look
came over your eyes.
Your sleepy gaze cast a spell on me.
You whispered to me then
without words,
in the language of your body,
which I understand
all too well.
Your head told me
to run my fingers
through your short spiky hair.
Your smooth cheeks told me
to paint them
with hungry little kisses.
Your lap told me to
climb in.
Your mouth told me
to fill it with my pretty pink nipple.
Your hands told me to abandon myself
to your touch,
to give up everything,
spread myself wide
and receive sensation.
I am a good girl, you know.
When you speak to me like this,
I can’t help
but listen.
how can I end this?
you have scarred me with love’s mark
imprint of your kiss
Always a lonely hunter of the heart,
I stalked your movements across the wilderness of my inner visions,
contemplated your various images like Rorschach blots
as they were painted in my dreams,
your petulant moods, your hard walls and ragged edges,
your painful betrayals, your ambiguous returns,
your stolen kisses
taken like a thief in the night.
When I saw you,
your brooding eyes spelled me to you
like sorcerer’s stones.
Your carefully cast glances entered the soft, yearning places on my body
with invisible hooks,
luring me to crave
your warm touch,
the familiar feel
of your rough hands
on my skin.
Inside my void, I rearranged things
with the insight of my secret wisdom.
I watched
as you fell through an inevitable crack
in the liminal space,
dove into the pool
of desire.
“God brought us together in this place” you said philosophically
after grabbing me
and pulling me to you at the bar.
But I only believe
in a personal god
and the artistry
of this living dream,
so when I found myself later that night
lying sweetly in your arms like a bear cub
in a cozy cave,
I knew I had crafted that moment with the clay of my will,
had penned it with my own divine hands,
as that is what I am willing to do
in pursuit of poetry.
You gave me the eye the other night.
Looked me down hard.
The air between us cracked for a hot moment
with a bolt of ambiguous desire.
I was struck,
became helplessly flustered.
Grew flushed and wanting.
You sauntered by me,
your chest puffed out meaningfully in my direction,
projecting rough masculinity like a magnet
that you know has the power
to draw me in.
If only time, distance, and social decorum
did not stand in the way,
I would have cut the space between us in two
with the sharpness of my fierce and unceasing heart,
rained a torrent of kisses on your lips
and unleashed the wiles of my native passion upon your body
like a ferocious and tender storm.
