if then i am only his effect (and he the cause)
A/N: the second collection of five poems on guys. Reviews please?
We used to joke that he would make a good wife.
I still think he would.
A gentle soul, a small frame.
Glasses askew on his nose.
A giggle that is infectious.
quiet, feminine, fastidious, patient.
Left handed people are unique, no?
He is in his own way.
light dusty powder-fresh blue.
He asked me once, why?
I could only asnwer, because you would.
I liked him better when he was noisy,
not drummed down like some winter rainy day.
His hands fumbling for the pencil tucked away.
I liked him when his mouth moved quick
and when his hands moved so fluently
they looked like running water.
I think he's broken now,
something so internal and abstract
that it spreads all over him.
I used to think the way he sprawled his fingers
into his hair and swept it up was majestic.
He doesn't do that anymore.
He sits and listens to the sound of his heart beating.
It's not that
no one remebers him.
it's just that he came back when everyone had
still forgotten him.
Sensuous and prickly, bitter and too white.
He wrapped himself in black fabric
which only made his skin more luminous.
We all regard him as a planet on a wayward tilt.
if we wait long enough,
he'll wander off somewhere.
he is artistically unstable.
I'd like to hit him, sometimes.
But I'm afraid to mar his skin
his beautiful, perfect, moonlit white skin.
The more I know him,
the stranger he gets.
He has aquamarine eyes
and a smile that steals diffidently onto his face.
The bus always jeers at him
He, sticking up for gay rights and abortion
as he chewed strawberry taffy.
of course, he's not gay himself.
At one point, the bare skin of his knee
touched the skin of his neighbor's leg
and he drew back so far
that he plastered himself against the bus side.
The bus smelled like cotton candy.
I've only met him once
In the frenzied air
of a laser tag game,
I slammed against him
all limbs and arms and legs.
he was aggression and arrogance and hurt.
The scent of his shirt and skin
completely filled my nostrils, my mind.
I talk to him through the computer now.
his closed face and explosive eyes
broken down into simple text and words.
The darkness of the chaotic laser tag game.
In that few seconds of close contact,
he and I were strangers who knew each other
better than our friends did.
He and I broken against the wall,
disentangling ourselves from ourselves and each other.
A/N: The longest history attaches itself to number 5. It's not a love poem, although I think it almost has that feel.