give me a chance to devour pages of your pores and perfect skin
i judge this book by its cover
my fingertips uncover the puzzle of your flesh sample syntax from sinewy surfaces memorize metaphors through your most sensitive membranes send messages from nerve endings to brain -
i read your freckles like braille and in their amber script i found myself
This is Just to Say
this is just to say i will spend my time convincing myself that it wasn't me who pushed you away
spend my forever telling myself that it wasn't the awkward curve of my breasts or the swells of my uneven skin that made you go
that when your eyes won't meet mine in public spaces you are not avoiding a memory of two tongues intertwined softly and fingers laced tight
and you're not full of regret from that beautiful night
you can't tell me you love me because the words are so big you might choke
A Kiss is Not a Promise
a kiss is not a promise it is fleeting it is temporal.
a quick moment in time and space.
two sets of imperfect lips connecting for seconds.
and it does not mean the future though it might feel like experiencing the universe in seconds
a touch is not a contract and your hands on my skin might feel like cells awakening might feel like pores on fire might feel like you're mine
but it is just a touch and a touch is not a contract and a kiss is not a promise
Papa Tries to Mince Words
Just after I got my nose pierced Papa took me to Blockbuster to rent a movie and held up a James Bond flick.
"That looks good," I said.
"It sure as hell does", he answered. "James Bond could shoot that thing right out of your nose."
being with me is like installing an above ground pool it can be incredibly fun, in the end, but you really should understand the kind of commitment you’re getting into
For Your Own Security
Please don’t choose a password associated with your phone number or address. Choose one of the following security questions: What is your mother’s maiden name? What was the name of your first pet? What is the name of your favourite childhood friend? What was the first concert you attended with a lover that you couldn't let go of? What is the name of the first person who tore your heart to shreds? Why didn't you call me when you said you would?
People Say that Bing Crosby was a Racist
People say that Bing Crosby was a racist But when I hear his cashmere voice And see his pants pulled up slightly too high I just want to be in Vermont Cuddling you under a fuzzy green blanket By a fireplace in a ski-shack While you read me a list Of all the Inuit words For snow
Sitting at the kitchen table in a dirty white apron With a huge, dented metal pot perched between her knees My grandma peeled russet potatoes And slid each one gingerly into the freezing water as if she didn’t want to disturb the others.
“How’s university?”, she asks, flicking a renegade peel off the back of her hand. “Pretty busy.” I reply, not looking up from my newspaper. “No boyfriend?” she says, her eyes lifting to my face for a second. “No, Gran. I’m really busy.”
She places a half-peeled potato back onto the pile, And lets her knife drop into her apron, Wiping her fingers on the fabric pulled taught between her knees.
She turns her hands over and rests her palms on her thighs, staring at her red knuckles and the veiny roadmaps of all the places she's never been. "You know," she says gingerly, her eyes on her open hands, "If you're a lesbian, we'll still love you."
I left the half-eaten bowl of strawberries On the coffee table in my living room; Didn’t readjust the couch cushions Or fold up the throw blanket When you left.
I couldn’t rinse out the wine glass you used; Your lip-stains and finger-prints Are the only evidence I have that it was you that was here.
I told you I needed your help with my computer.
But really I just wanted to play connect-the-dots Between the freckles on the back of your neck With my tongue
While you reformatted my hard drive
indefinable and translucent,
his honey-stained words snake through every room filling cracks in walls, smoothing over still skin and seeping through pores.
blankets of clouded whispers pool in a warm cup and radiate through numb-restless fingers.
he lights a fire, weaving heat in soft chords and ridges igniting limbs and surfaces and peeling back pretense
so with shallow velvet breaths and heart beating through ears