he plays the drums, I write with lead, you battle
to keep your tongue and soul away from him
as I scribble words to get closer to you
but soon I conclude boys in bands are every girl’s dream
at seventeen

your words after seven years of age are still
milky fresh substance down my throat
not like earthly bound pleasures

your blushing lips transcend their peach colored pigment
when they lean over your laughter
white million dollar teeth like mock-biting on display

I write down this besides you
feeling drunker than ever
writing about someone I can
never love completely

the pleasure of writing about you
turns quickly into you leaving the room to cremate my thoughts
your eyes reclined in their sockets
subconsciously in love with him (not me) that I longed
to experience, instead, you talk to me
as if our words were holding hands

you told me
‘I thought you wanted to be my boyfriend’
as if you were implying I was an unfortunate fetus
to come from my mother’s womb

my mind still pictures pixels of your
lips brushing mine, like the hands of an artist
the way your eyes photograph;
dream under your covers in black and white
or maybe I’ll look more masculine under a sepia light

not being with you breaks the bones of my youthful face
I exhale that- I need you; want
out hearts cloaked together inside the same flesh-

you dance with me at prom
but your eyes are turned to stone
and your feet aren’t on fire


I plead miserably to my lover
with my head almost nodding on her shoulder
as she says with no words:
‘ we have no chemistry
together'

memory; when I’m gone
will be a poor servant to caress
your hands; snapping the bridge into the twilight of my consciousness
to envelope your mother fingers
as they wash ashore over my arms
the way my silence talks for words as
sweat beads from your pores,
whispering for his shadow to incarnate next to your lips:
a lick of anticipation readying itself
beckoning himforward while filling his lungs
with pure female scent, your warmth
surrounding him must be(come) incredible

teenage lips- yours, have been my muse for seven years
I still can’t get over you

I’ve become so talented at sketching
the story of your body with the alphabet (after seven years)
your marble cheeks of human perfection, you are
Michelangelo’s lost art he clenched in his grave
the last time he laid eyes on you was
with your tongue on a bedspread of teeth
which I can only imagine as
a state of absolute bliss

Your laughter, what catalyzed this whole poem
sends my gaze into the wilderness of your eyes
with so much natural longing
that I still think of you out of habit

I drip
with
perspiration
that’s
retarding my
walk
as I carry you with invisible hands
behind closed doors-

I wish you would gaze at me with your Venus eyes
and storm into my shirt

I am a liar, and I lie on you with beautiful words
I am jaded Judas Iscariot
fingers feebly rubbing against my arm
pretending the ghost of your skin is brushing against mine

I will sit down to write poetry again
for another seven years, about the time it took for me to realize
my presence bores you into tears

I sit inside myself
now, just a rotting bag of protein
without a lover, like a lover without a name to be called

ergo

what will become of my poetry
when I leave you?