It’s Not December Anymore

Your good beauty is suffering
on my nightstand. Here, you are
gray sand; a sleeping portrait
framed for mortality, unworthy
of a name.

I miss that one sunset. I gathered you
after the rain;
a bouquet of loose eyes
and tight words. My hair curled
around my face.
I watched you watch the sun
burst around my pupils
and we both wanted…

you were distinct like
wet leaves crushed under our feet,
like stained lips’ plumb kiss.
Silent admissions were made
under our spirited breath.
I inhaled for
you, exhaled for…

I did you no wrong.

We made storms that carved
time and
broke wind chimes.
I painted your hands over mine,
then erased them.
You gave up.

seasons have exchanged
heated glances; volcanic disregard
erupted from our mouths, but
there were not words,

and silence could have been generous,
but it was not. Not
to you,
nor to I.

That season has come back and I feel
the sunset waiting,
time has dug a cave in
new clouds.
I am silent no more,
my voice is a proud thunder

I am waiting for you!

I Think Of You Every Day

It took only his few words in sight,
tied together on specks of dust,
sent to me on the back of July’s
thick breeze.

I stood as openly as my chest would allow,
reading his words from the hot pavement,
soaking in a fresh idea, feeling
his tone
settle deep in my ribs.

It is not an uncomfortable place for him,
for me,
unlike the others. He is a choice.
I gather his aromatic movement
like a lilac wedding bouquet and plant
his image between my special vessels
and skilled capillaries.

At first, years ago, when I kept my eyes
and cheeks naked, it
was not a choice. His parasitic words glued
themselvesĀ to my eager young ears, prepared to host.
Now though, his silvery voice is
passion fruit,
a red sweet juice that saturates me,
and it took only his few words sprawled
in the hot July pavement,

“I think of you every day.”