I hate
myself
when I’m
around you
more than
I love
us.
I hate
myself
when I’m
around you
more than
I love
us.
Bring me the full moon in a beer bottle.
Soak my vision in the clarity of hop flavored fermentation.
Recognize the moon for the rough lover it is;
Leaving the sky blue, blending to purple
Then yellowing around the edges.
Have a bouquet of daisies delivered
And let the last petal that hits the table
Sing “He loves you not.”
Leave a box of chocolates in my mailbox,
And if the mailman eats them
Honey, bring me the sunset in a coffee cup.
Pour this ceramic vessel to the brim
Of a technicolor sky.
As the sun falls, dip dying the horizon
In Valentine hearts, monarch’s wings, and lilac petals,
Make me a promise to leave
A salt stained mattress at the place of impact.
An eight foot trampoline speckled with melted water balloons
From childhood games.
Return to me the sexuality of youth’s first love,
Few know it exists. But if you would sink to your knees amongst the clutter and reach back into the depths you’d find the trove, the symbolic skeletons I’ve hung there.
The delicate white dress I wore on our first date. I fell in love for the first time in that dress. I never wore it again. No matter how many times it was washed it is forever wrinkled and limp.
The heavy brown hoodie from a midnight relationship that didn’t see dawn. That smoke-laden zip-up became a blanket on many nights, keeping the chill of loneliness at bay, offering more solace than his arms ever could.
Standing in the soft, washed out light she looks
like a memory he would be better off forgetting.
As he watches, the sun, the breeze, the hem of her skirt,
they all caress the flesh of her thigh like a menagerie of lovers.
He can’t help but envy them. The last time
he knew what it was to touch youth he was young himself.
The way she stands there, with her back arched,
makes him imagine her old enough to wear
the naked posture of maturity naturally.
But when she throws back her head, laughing carelessly,