there are days
in which the light sinks
and the darkness takes the shape
of your crooked fingers
and the one dimple set in stone
bleeding
all of your words,
thoughts
the way you bled your lip
before stuttering over the words
that the darkness consumed
before they left.
pretty boys like pretty girls
the way I like the cigarettes
suspended between your lips
how i can feel the smoke
burning in my lungs
when your lips brush mine
days, weeks, months later
barely smoldering and stale
my skin, made of glass
and your fingers like hammers,
tapping the surface
cracking and scarring,
the break:
everything falling,
until the only things intact
are shards of what was once
a chandelier.
when you left
your pack of cigarettes stayed
on top of the kitchen table
under a pile of mail addressed to someone else,
junk mail
that no one touches.
while you sleep
i draw lines from birth mark to birth mark
across your back, down your arm
sketching constellations that you will never see
in ink
that i will watch slide down the curves of your spine
swirling down the shower drain
to disappear.
when we met,
you told me you were a professor.
a teacher of English,
and how to say your name
with every inflection
every note
and every sound.
a professor of foreign language,
and how to say love in five ways
five countries you’d travelled
with five women
five lovers.
an intellectual of chemistry,
and the reactions of touch
the thermodynamics of touch
with motions
melting points.
when we met,
I told you I was a student
but we could trade places
so that you could learn
every tic
every inch.
We spent our days on the road in a tiny black four door that made me feel four inches shorter, and stayed our nights in cheap motels that made me feel like I hadn’t showered in ages.
We’d been gone for two weeks and you said you didn’t miss home.
You didn’t miss the trips to that hole-in-the-wall diner with the ripped up red seats and dusty windows, with the burned out sign reading ‘e t.‘ You didn’t miss those worn out old menus that you would finger the edges of, even though you knew exactly what you wanted, or the waitress that was standing a little too close to your elbow and leaning a little to
love me until we soar,
higher,
until our wings are singed by the sun
and our heads are in the clouds,
but our feet haven't left the cotton
and our hands and thoughts are lost
in a sea of blankets.
fly with me
until the landing,
the opposite of easy,
turns into a fast descent for the ground
leaving us with bruises and cracks,
fragile until we break.
a poem you'll never read by Mystic-Viper, literature
Literature
a poem you'll never read
A writer will tell you she loves you
in a poem you'll never read.
She will write you
the dedication in a novel
that will never see the light of day.
She will pronounce her love with what she holds dear,
the tip of a pen,
the pages of a tattered book
that she keeps tucked under a pillow.
The steam from the coffee that keeps her up all night
will whisper your name
and disappear into thin air after curling into her mind.