When, From One Lover To Another Hours After Loving

When

you touch your palm
to my shoulder
it’s funny,
I get to thinking
you want me to write you a poem.

well here’s a poem.

the verbs
conjugate like
cavities
and the clock
holds us
nowhere and all my
old tricks make me sea-sick.

I don’t know
how to love
sometimes I realize that
mostly I forget it.

I love to miss you more than anything else.

I don’t know how to
write poetry but usually I
forget that. anyone can
write a poem
but me I write

dish-soap

to clean up all the muddy bloody
and when you listen
to me,
I’m picking all the battles up in handfuls
like cherries,

the way you say that this is
just the cherry on top

when you’re really unhappy
and you probably thought
I’d write a
nicer poem about
how I love

your eyelashes

and the way your nails
are clean half moons
at the tips and how
your little features are metaphors and they’re
like similes as if

I miss you

I miss

an idea of you

my eyelashes are
even shorter than
my attention span,
I know.

and I am
at the window,
now, with lips made out of
powdered sugar. my
lips taste like
milk when I bite them and
they do not taste
like you.

From One Lover to Another Hours After Loving

Are you up? I can’t sleep.
My feet are so cold and you’ve got the entire blanket.
Do you think you could give me some of the blanket? Are you awake?
Nothing’s wrong, no, I just couldn’t sleep and I thought you might want to talk.
My feet are so cold. Feel it? Can you feel my toes
on your leg? Aren’t they freezing? Don’t go
to sleep. Let’s talk about
something. Tell me your dreams,
darling. Don’t groan. Come on. Are you up? Do you think
I could get some blanket? Am I boring you? No, I know you
have to get up at six thirty tomorrow and I know it’s late now but I thought that
maybe maybe we could tell each other stories
I don’t care. Any kind of stories. You could tell me what you
wanted to be when you grew up before you grew up
I wanted to be a rock star. My feet are so goddamn cold.
Isn’t it pretty now? The air is so raw and clear but dark.
It’s so dark. I can’t even see my fingers–can you see them? How many am I
holding up? Don’t roll over. Hey. I thought maybe
you would want to tell me that
you love me? No yeah everything’s okay
I just. I just thought. Not a kiss,
no. I thought maybe we could talk and you could tell me
what you have in store for tomorrow and what you want for breakfast
and maybe I’ll stay up all night and tip-toe out of bed half an hour before the alarm goes off and I could make it for you in my bathrobe and slippers.
All I can see of you is the outline of hair and the edge of your chin.
This must be what our shadows look like when we’re not watching them. Do you think they get up to anything naughty when we’re not looking?
Yeah. I’ll be quiet.
You’ve got all the blanket.
I’m sorry. Are you still up?
No, it’s fine. I’m fine. It’s just–my feet are so cold. And I can’t sleep,
and I thought you might want to tell me you love me.

This entry was written by NYC Scholastic Awards and published on November 20, 2013 at 12:00 pm. It’s filed under Poetry, Writing. Bookmark the permalink. Follow any comments here with the RSS feed for this post.

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out / Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out / Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out / Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out / Change )

Connecting to %s

%d bloggers like this: