putting words to our love,
the gravest insult:
like caging an eagle.
Tag: love poetry
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your eyes could make a romantic out of a cynic
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i hadn’t known
an answered prayer
could fit in my arms
until i held you.
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we sit at the freeway’s edge.
you tell me,
“pretend the cars
are shooting stars.”
but here you are:
in my arms.
I have my wish.
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a love most tender. god, let me love you.
what a gift it is to give love. what a gift it is to get to love. to be there for you on your roughest days. to be the one you trust. to make you feel better. to make you food, hold you, comfort you. to be the one you turn to.
god, what a gift: to be someone’s refuge.
i want to be that one for you. i want to be the one you can put the wall down around. god, more than receiving love, i think it’s getting to give love to someone. to see that trust, to see you soften at my touch. to be your safety.
god, what a gift.
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this world is so cold. I need to warm myself by the hearth of your heart.
two pairs of feet, they peek out of a blanket. their legs, lazily tangled. they graze on one another, they warm themselves. there is safety in this scene. there is simplicity.
it isn’t a scene that is mine. but it replays itself, over and over, within my mind.
why is it that desire
becomes an ache?
I’ve never known a want
without pain.
to yearn:
it’s to hurt.
oh,
to cook for you
while you rub the sleep out of your eyes—
you alone,
my morning sunrise.
coffee in the morning. you on my lap. lazy, slow. we steal minutes we don’t have.
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feels less like heartbreak,
more like homesickness.
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crystal of ecstasy,
coated in sweetness—
rock of Molly,
I taste your Venus—
then every thread
within my mind,
at once lights up
a starry night—
god—
going down,
it gets me high.
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sometimes poetry is freedom
sometimes it is barbed wire.
sometimes it is liberation
sometimes it is ruin.
sometimes it is truth,
often falsehood.
sometimes it is truth
wrapped in falsehood,
sometimes falsehood
wrapped in truth.
who is to say which?
sometimes
it’s like taking what’s ugly
and making it clean.
sometimes
it’s like taking what’s gorgeous
and making it weep.
sometimes
i lay myself
naked
on paper.
sometimes,
i hide myself
in glamour.
every poem I’ve ever written
that wasn’t about desire
is false.
that’s all i know.
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love:
one of the most basic needs.
give a man a warm bed
but no love,
still will he freeze.
THE CLOSET MYSTIC 