I sold my skin, inch by inch,
for kisses and caresses;
for sweet whispers in the darkness.
in sighing surrender, I have given you all
that’s left of me worth giving;
for the rest is bitter and indecent,
hollow and filled with holes.
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drafting.
I wanted to scream my words at the paper until the lines broke,
but my pen was too loud and in my hand it explodes
ink red like blood, and I’m smearing it all over your perfect,
clean sheets like I don’t know any better
but I want you to see this, and feel this, and
when I fall face first into the pillowcase,
I want you to fall, too
heart beating like you’ve run five marathons but
god you’re just sitting still, just sitting there
and for some god-awful reason,
in all your perfect splendor and
all your glowing mass
I can’t seem to remember a single thing about what we’re doing here
and so the page stays blank.
sing-a-long.
you but merely smiled,
and I tripped over the curve of your cheek,
fell into the breath you exhaled,
sighing your sweetness onto my gracelessness.
your laughter like a song,
I danced my clumsy feet along its rhythm,
tried to find the tempo in my racing heart,
to worship you in movement.
you became a lullaby,
and I, a suckling babe,
staring upward into your heavens,
my heart begging to join your dreams.
unwritten.
I almost wrote about you.
I got almost two whole paragraphs in, and then I stopped.
I won’t write about you.
here’s to never getting any further than two paragraphs.
camping.
I want
to sit by the warmth
of the fire of your soul
to warm my aching bones
in your heat
to sing a song
without words
from my mouth
with no tongue
to touch the sky
of your skin
mapped with constellations
of all the places you’ve gone
to sink into darkness
with weary head
and thumping heart
to forget days
and nights
and space
and motion
all the pittances of life
to cut the thread of time
with the lover’s knife
immersion.
I read the lines which curved your lips just so
but where I kissed your fresh ink you blurred
into something incomprehensible,
illegible in the same way the passion behind a sigh
can only be felt, and not recorded.
I turned the pages of your skin and read the stories you told,
kept pace with the way you twisted and turned
under my eager hands, prying eyes,
spread your wings open until I could see your waiting spine.
I pressed the sharpness of your corners against the
softness of my chest and breathed in the smell of you,
like a memory I’d kill to touch just one more time,
something so almost-real, I could taste it.
I felt your weight in my hands,
read your over-simplified summary as though it could ever
contain the vastness of you and the secrets
you might tell if I opened you up and opened myself up
and tried to feel it.
finalities.
I dreamt of you,
and upon waking,
at felt as though you’d just stepped from my room.
as though your hand had only left my forehead,
and the softness of your footsteps,
the quiet of your absence,
had woken me and left me hence.
knowing that I could run out my door,
calling your name,
arms open,
and you’d not be there.
you’d never be there again.
mirage.
I fell in love with the color of your eyes,
the soft light of morning barely kissing your skin.
a gentle almost-touching of fingertips to waiting lips,
but no…
I fell in love with careless words uttered in passion,
whispers, breathtaking, on over-eager ears.
a quiet solace in unknowing, promises sworn to never be broken,
and so..
I fell in love with a stranger I’ve yet to know,
a reflection in a mirror I’ve told exactly what to show.
the steady downfall of awakening, open eyes and closing heart.
I go.
blight.
I can’t say the words I want to say
so they sit on my tongue and as they rot
and dance their dirty death dance around my
aching head
my mouth decays
and with it go the lips which kissed your eyelids
as you dreamt lightly in my bed
and with it the cheeks which blushed at
your every flattery and swelled with every
grin reflected perfectly on your face
and I just hope
I just hope
that when it’s all gone
and bare
and reeks of something putrid
that there won’t be anything left
to look into a mirror and remind me of myself
and that in apathy and bare judgement of
blinding white bone and cranial infrastructure
I can find some peace and quiet
giver.
I gave not from my heart, for she had nothing left of note.
I gave only from my body, and in my sensible head I hoped.
I built you up from grains of sand, gave light that you were better man.
in dreaming, and in passing,
in mourning, and in loss,
I gave you up for something more,
yet now our paths no longer cross.
If mystics could have told me,
Whispered doom into my ears,
I cannot promise on our love
that we would still be here.
iamwhatshewrote 
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