putting words to our love,
the gravest insult:
like caging an eagle.
Tag: romantic
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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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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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Have you ever shut off
for years,
then had a reckoning where all that was forgotten
erupts
to the surface?
Have you ever shut off,
only to be set off
by a few words, maybe offhanded,
but cracking the ice on which you walked? and you fall, fall, fall,
into the cold, into the deep?
I hadn’t known these depths still existed. I’d gone so cold that the lake froze over. I forgot I walked on ice. I forgot a little bit of warmth would be peril. I forgot I could melt.
Remember: you can go cold for a time, but the Sun returns.
There’s no such thing
as an endless winter.
Be prepared for those waters,
that ice will melt.
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drowning
in an ocean of want
desire
is a maelstrom—
it grabs my ankle.
down, down, down we go,
down, down, down to the bottom.
i found you there
in the abyss
those murky spots of shame
at the ocean’s floor.
here,
our scarlet letters
catch no light.
and here,
our wrongs
turn right.
here. in the shadows.
you alone were my Sun in the pit.
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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 