I am a fan buying a woman gifts.
Connecting the dots
As I shop for myself with the person I spend moments with.
Locating the rift
In our personal wardrobes.
Remembering conversations where I was told.
Her favorite type of clothes.
Careful calculations as I offer suggestions to complete the equation on what it is they desire.
Cropped photos of sweaters of different shades waiting for her to give me the OK.
The way her face grins as she steps into the sundress that I suggest.
I know what she likes.
If I would get it wrong she would send me quickly back to the drawing board.
Here I am
Figuring her out
One garment at a time.
I like it when she’s aggressive.
How she grips my soul when she tosses one leg over my imagination.
Mounting me like a dragon, cutting my scales as she drags her fingernails over my armor.
Whispering incantations into my ear.
Turning flesh into stone as her words carve hieroglyphs onto my bones.
So intimate that when she moans I hear my own moans in the back of my mind.
She closes her eyes but still I see passed her eye lids into the nothingness as she commands me.
Her hair swaying in the wind that she conjures around us.
As I am lifted into the void.
My name is whispered from between her thighs.
She is the amalgamation of pleasure.
Her skin radiates alongside mine as she takes me away to a paradise made of carved ice and liquid fire.
She let’s go of my soul as she places it between her lips.
She kisses me just as the world begins to manifest itself around us.
The gills in my lungs that are dormant,
I would reawaken.
If it is your love
That I can drink in.
You are the carbon,
Of which my being is based,
If I could say what it is that I adore about you.
It would be your taste.
Your taste in men like me
Is what leaves me stunned.
Where other’s saw hundreds,
You only saw one.
Out of old scars,
As you unraveled my mind.
Playing your guitar.
My smile was covered,
By the afro you maintain.
After I kissed your forehead,
While we stood in the rain.
The right to defend your love is not mine.
Though I will take up arms,
If so ever came the time.
I love how different we are
How like stars we are
Complex with similar elements to let us know we all belong to the same existence
Walking around I take note of the differences and I acknowledge the spectrum
Taking note that we’re starting to realize that life isn’t so binary
Life isn’t So black and white
Life isn’t So wrong and right
Understanding that life is like a romance novel where you go back and read your favorite chapters
Where you remember the laughter
and the conversations and contemplation
The ones that made you a better observer.
A better listener
A better lover
A better friend
Someone who lives and breathes with compassion.
In a misguided attempt to fly without wings he fell to his doom.
Living his life based on the opinion of his peers. He made no room for himself inside his soul. Shoving and constricting. Twisting and bending to fit into the iron box that was constructed by people who didn’t even know his last name. In the day time he played video games and read research about evolution while listening to Herbie Hancock.
At night he roamed the streets while kicking over trashcans filled with his parent’s expectations. Wondering in his mind if they too, were misguided. Howling at the moon like a crazed wolf. Waking up in places unfamiliar. Next to warm bodies that held onto him like he was the last breath that they would ever need. Holding him down like vines over abandoned concrete. His soul waiting on the street sweeper to cleanse the debris.
He laid there; In a catatonic state, wondering.
“Why doesn’t anyone rescue me?”
He is use to being the one that people retreat to.
When the front line is being bombarded by arrows. When the spears strike from a distance that doesn’t allow retaliation.
He stands with his arms extended toward the chaos-
not expecting for anyone to save him.
She worries about her smile,
All the while it reminds me of starlight in the moonlight.
Just as works of art take time to develop
like photographs in a dark room.
She were beautiful before the cocoon,
And she will be after.
Her interest in her inadequacies,
And the probability of her not being enough is a miscalculation,
Of what she can bring to the relation.
And to that I say;
She is the reason my cup runeth over.
I don’t mind being sober while we sit by the fire that grows between us.
Small goodbyes and indulgent hellos,
Becoming entangled as we run our fingers through each others fros.
She is the monarch butterfly who’s design can’t be replicated.
Intricate be design with eyes that leave me sedated.
With banter that is witty and insightful,
The time I spend with her is always delightful.
Organic conversation that is pure,
For the loneliness that I feel-
She is the cure.