I would write you everyday. Poems and scribbles and notes, Until you learned The unevenness of my hand The habits of my penmanship The chaos of my scrawl. In a world of dying paper and ink They would save every scrap Torn from the back of notebooks Jotted down on well-folded receipts They would compile anthologies of my sweet nothings Until children who had long forgotten pens and lined paper Would press their fingers into the ink and indentations And know this is what devotion feels like.
For The Moth That Lived and Died In My Bathroom
And his wings, folded shut in death, concealed that he had been beautiful
Coming Out
I read that we never get to stop coming out. Well I came out to myself the other day, Stepped out of my glass closet for a moment, Well, not so much a class closet than one of those Cabinets old people use to store their china I am transparent, the way I hoard your gifts, Your presents, your presence. I never tell the ones who need to hear it the most. Instead I let it rest on my lips the way I wish yours would And flitter round my tongue the way I want yours to, But I can’t….
Shop Boy Crush
Do you have a lunch break, or do you sustain on cuteness and sheepish smiles? Because if you do, I do too. And i don’t mean to be ambiguous but I do mean both. Because if you don’t have a lunch break, I don’t really need That soup and a sandwich I buy everyday Just that smile… See I’m like a plant except instead of sunshine, I flourish on your shine Because boy do you shine. See I’m more like a flower than anything else, You know, like how they lean to the sun and all? Yeah, that’s my flow…
Hands
I have become enamored with your hands. The way slender fingers join knuckles, Soft palms taper to fine wrists. I cannot look away. Cupping your face, Clasped around knee, Rest belies their strength. Your hands could craft the world if they wanted to.
Sea Shanty
I wrote this on the offhanded request of a friend. She said that her OTP (One True Pairing), was sand and salt water. And I take inspiration where ever I can get it. Sea Shanty You are the salt of my earth, Said the tide to the shore. Leaving sweet nothings In pools filled with stars As the moon’s siren song Pulled them further apart. Palm trees with their heads buried in the clouds promised he’d return, You could hear it in the crashes of the waves. But every time you leave, You wear me away, The shore whispered back.
An Education
I want to learn the language your body speaks, Whispered by your hips as you move, Decode the ciphers between your sighs. I have learned the angle of your slouch, The spread of your fingers And the coil of your curls. There is a science to you I have not yet learned. I have learned the contours of your face The locations of your moles The longitude and latitude of your dimples The length and breadth of your smile Better than I ever learned geography. Maybe I’d map those contours of your face (Which I’ve already committed to memory) but…
Flash Fiction Friday #42: Shaman
first fff in a while! And now i have to know: how many times can i write about obeah before i actually need to research it? flash fiction friday #42 (inclusion)trigger: religion, superstition, tradition, vision, collision. Shaman He didn’t like to talk about it, but given the nature of gossip, everyone knew and did the talking for him. Big time evangelist preacher, but I hear his brother is a obeah man! Yes! I hear it too! An’ it wasn’t jus’ he, his granny in it too! My tanty was tellin’ me so de other day… Not to say…
Ethos
I always stay too late. I am always the last to leave, The one left to taste the soured wine Passed in frantic effort To regain the spirit, Get burnt by the embers Of hysterical bodies Trying to rekindle the longspent fire. Last to leave And first to come off that high Brought on by either ethers or ethos First to sniff the stale smiles that linger in the air Long after the fleeting fancy That brought them has left. I always leave too late, And as I totter home, I am always emptier in the dying hours Drained from…
Heat
And it felt like all there ever was, was heat. 32 degrees coupled with too wet air, hot stickiness of flesh it incites hot throbbing in the tips of my fingers and the end of my toes hot sighs with hot breath as hot air lays sultry kisses on blistering necks. Hot rain hits hot pavement and sizzles And all there ever was, was heat. My paradise is now hell.