small stories

“Go to your bosom; Knock there, and ask your heart what it doth know” Measure for Measure Act 2, Scene 2, lines 36-37 artwork by Jhenai Mootz

I came alone.

the first time, since.
I came alone. today,
the first time
since we were
we, and from my corner
I watched,
us, side by side,
legs touching, and ankles entwined
telling each the small stories,
telling the small stories that
made up our days.
opening,
and then offering
little bits of ourselves,
to each other.
opening,
sometimes slowly,
the little
bits of ourselves,
carefully
removing a brick,
maybe two, from the walls.
a brick, maybe two
from the walls we had built,
and for a time, putting them down,
entwining our stories,
the small stories that made up our days.

Sun fills the doorway, fills
the doorway,
and I see you,
I see you walk in, the sun
glinting
off of those sunglasses
you wore.
I look from your eyes
to your smile
and I tell you my small stories,
the small stories that make up
my day,
the ones left unfinished
the new job, and now,
you tell me your stories, your
small stories, once again
entwining our stories,
entwining,
our stories
once again.

Sun fills the doorway
the doorway that's empty, and
a brick, maybe two, still
wait on the floor, the space
they once held in my life,
the space,
they once held,
still lies open.

Sun fills the doorway
the doorway that's empty, and
a brick, maybe two, remain
on the floor
I hold my small stories
in one hand, lie the stories
one hand that lies open, a hand
that lies open as I
walk out the door.

Ode to a Man on a Honda

Ode to a Man on a Honda

Shall we dance?
just you and I?
take a ride to our horizon’s end…

shall I wrap my thighs
-tight-
round yours?
grasp
your leather hips -
lean into you
as black ribboned road’s vibrations
consume us -
combine me with
your heat.

can I close my eyes -
and feel your lashing hair
lick
my cheeks,
my eyes
into my mouth?
will it taste
of you?
of road-and-wind-and-sweat.

myself, machine and man -
wide open to the sky
as we blister sunny fields of flowers
their faces turned in awe.

chrome keeps flashing
sunlight briefly
while rubber treaded miles are
~melting~
into asphalt,
with our blended beads
of sweat
pressing-in-between-us,
as we race
to
-every-
-heated-
-swaying-
wave~on
our
horizon.

not to touch

I read Neruda with you  
in a dream
worthy of your untamed mouth, 
your heavy eyes 
holding the deep night's velvet,
your hands, impossible  
not to touch 

I woke with you 
my eyelids  
draped, and then 
opened to cold solitude,
an emptiness caressed  
by dawn’s orange fingers 
your touch fleeing on chaste butterfly wings 

my love, a transparent child,
cries soft round tears 
that float up and leave my 
tender kisses in the 
pure whiteness of clouds.

sleep

pretending, I arrange

pillows, I arrange and 

I imagine 

the space

you would fill, your

breath's rhythm, your

mouth's heat

by my shoulder,

in my hair, the

movement on my hip of

a single finger tracing 

my pale skin. 

I imagine

the causal tangle 

of our legs. 

and then

I close my eyes,

lean into you,

and sleep.

important things

important things

I don't write,
write poems, 
anymore.

I used to.
write them
a lot, now
when I want to write about your mouth, and
how your lips would press, and the words were held
behind your teeth
or, years later how
my first taste of loukoumades
created a sensation in my mouth that made
my knees bend, and that when I put my fingers
on my lips to lick them,
I thought of you.

thought of why I used to,
used to write about
the important things,
like the shape of your mouth
and the sensation of honey on my tongue, and
old wishes for us.

then I remember,
remember how
you wouldn't look into my eyes
or touch me
unless you had to, and that,
and that, it was as if
you were afraid.

I don't write,
write poems,
anymore, because my words,
all of them, were for you, and
now I think I should
keep them,
keep them, for myself.