stinkybutt

i want to be held by you
by your voice your hands your face lips mouth ears you hear
when i talk not like someone
waiting to speak

i enjoy you
your words,
your taste.
i miss you and it stings.

not writing

i promised you a poem

expecting to pull that slime out of me

like puking on pages

but i can't find the words

mushrooms

i remember wanting to do

psychedelic mushrooms with you

i thought it would make us.

sanguine

another heart I turned blue.

(found it useless to seek) a new me in you

haven't written in ages

here staring at pages

they look back blankly inside their cages

i am chewing the traces

of yesterday's poem, last year's regret,

and formulated phrases, like "now's not the time,"

"your eyes don't match mine,"

content with dispair, and perfectly fine

swallowing it all with wine.

ooo

in the morning i felt your fingertips after you left

they told me i could love you

but maybe some other morning

when we had the time.

nothing yet

by now

you patented the smile on my lips,

and maybe even my hips.

A closet full of make-up,

learning colors

downstairs, Grandpa in the darkroom. (while the fan swayed its arms,

your orchid watched.)

Counting backwards, she makes room for us all--

unveils the evening: a scrabble board.

we learn colors

upstairs,

her chest full of scarves.

Careful careful hands held us

enveloped into a charmed dance

of the softest quiet beauty within my Grandmother's hands.