constellations

December 13, 2016
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i said that loving you required energy equal to that of
unhooking the stars, but birthed adoration like the
ancient greeks naming them:
taurus, orion, the pleiades


i think this is the part where
you lean in to kiss me, soft and stinging,
tired mouth that aches with certainty. you reply
with something clever, comment on the
constellations in my eyes and brush the snowflakes
from my lips.


i wait with bated breath for my poetry
to be returned. don’t you feel God in my car
tonight? want to taste the wet sun cupped
in my mouth? is that a hum of forever i hear in
your puckered wrists?


you look forward, faint blush on your cheeks,
staring hard out the passenger side window. i
want to write poems about the hairpin curve
of your cheek. i want you to want to write
poems about me.


i know that my level of love,
the overwhelming intensity of it, makes your head
swim. you hated romeo and juliet but my perfume drips roses, an obsession by no other name,
love and love and love that will never
be matched nor rivaled nor conquered.


do you remember the first thing i said to you?
about wanting to take a carving knife through
the night sky and slice out all the stars?


if only ownership was easy as
a steady grip and a sharpened blade. your
beating heart would be twitching in my hands,
mouth full of sinewy muscle weaving and
lamenting soliloquies. i’d give anything to
undo this thready pulse, interrupt our disconnect,
cut a girl-shaped hole where your doubt sits
sullenly.






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