sometimes I wish I was just from somewhere. part of me feels like I’m missing something huge.
The first time I say I love you, your face
crumbles. You look at me
the way man stares in terror
at the stars and the sea.
You grasp your head, fist
your hair, hiss, whisper why me
why me I am weak I am
dirt I am dust I am
Why you? Because
the earth is made of dust
and dirt and you are as
essential to me as earth
is to sky; you give me something
to set my sun against.
The dirt and the dust are not
weak. I could build a house
out of you; you are the roof
when I rain.
i never understood
what made your lips on my neck
such an intimate affair
until your teeth grazed my pulse
and i realized
you could tear open my throat
and make me bleed out in your arms
you chose to kiss
I need something to tell me to go on.
I need something to tell me that this is the path I’m supposed to be on.
I’m not looking for some divine intervention
I’m not even looking for a sign
I’m just waiting for a feeling in my gut
I’m just hoping that I haven’t wasted four years.
i’ll just count the stars until the day I get to fall asleep next to you.
My flesh takes on other flesh and tries to see
what colors two bodies can make.
Blues and greens. Oranges. All the colors
of volcano rain.
When my mouth forgets how to language, I sentence
with my hands. I curve my body just so, knowing that
you’re staring at my neck, knowing so well how people love
to lose themselves in skin.
This morning I woke after dreaming of train tracks covered in
yellow flowers, looked at the man sleeping beside me, and left
my bed to count the ways that you can leave your soul through
There is a tenderness in closing your eyes and seeing
explosions, in the fact that we loved each other for so long without
touching, in the fact that there is such a thing as souls brushing
underneath the table instead of this: the night, josie’s bar,
your beautiful hand crawling too high up my thigh.
When I close my eyes I see light. When I open them,
I see men and women in their black coats, walking dreamily
and dreamlessly, closing their eyes through the traffic
and writing dirty poems on used napkins.
Drills press themselves into the flesh of concrete. Tires
pull at gravel. On windy days, even the buildings move their hips
and hope love will come of it; but
when I talk about our flesh, I don’t mean this flesh. I don’t mean
muscles or Château-Briand or you fucking me underneath the
blankets. I don’t mean bones. I don’t mean skin. I don’t
mean any of that new-aged bullshit.
All I want is to be held, softly, by your gaze. All I want is
for my words to be touched, gently, as if you never wanted to read
anyone else’s words
I’ve been sitting on this one for a while, partially because I wasn’t sure if it made any sense, but also because I was scared to show it to anyone. I’ve never talked about this kind of thing on Tumblr before because it’s such a touchy subject. But it’s Holy Week, and it seems relevant somehow.