A Poem
I know i haven't posted any poems in a long time, so i thought I might as well. please keep in mind that this is a very, very rough draft and unlike most poems i would ever write. criticism is welcome and would be greatly appreciated.
PARIS
Dawn comes,
a golden creamy rose and orange spreading
like the permeating pink of the blushing pommettes of an ingénue.
Sunlight catches on the rim of my wide mouthed cup,
creating a crescent of eggshell,
a sliver of light accentuated by a parallelogram of white,
precariously balanced upon smooth, sloping edges of tan,
refracts off the obsidian black of my coffee,
a sharp, spiked, ivory star in my hands.
Patches of light move slowly up my arm,
from fingertips and the dull milky ebony of wrought iron railings
up the billowing sleeve
up up past elbow to shoulders...
I can feel the sunlight sculpting them,
warming them better than a layer of cotton could ever hope to,
creating the softest of shadows beneath my collarbones
and reminding me of the way in which he taught me to love them.
The way he used to kiss them,
softly, tenderly,
tracing their path from the tips of my shoulders
to the little hollow where the two meet,
pausing -
then starting the long journey down the other.
A mere memory enough to cause a dull throb of longing from the marrow outward,
a reminder that I cannot love my collarbones alone.
It is not quite warm, yet.
Not quite Paris au printemps,
and so my hands find their way to a dark green trenchcoat,
insulating enough and a barrier against any possible showers.
I struggle to tie the straps around my waist,
fingers fumbling until I am in the middle of la rue,
saved from motorists by the youth of the day,
sighing and taking comfort in the slow rapping of shoes I never thought I would wear,
a gentle tap-tap on stones worn smooth through the centuries.
The road,
the buildings,
so steeped in history that I cannot help but feel their stories ooze out,
between the cracks,
and remind me that this is not the first.
The collar is high,
stiff and striking of subtle sophistication,
and as I walk down the road, it brushes ever so lightly against my jawbone,
a tickle so imperceptible that it borders on imagination,
and suddenly I am no longer aware of anything other than the small square inch of skin
between os and tissu,
a ready excuse to forget that shadow always comes with sunlight.
Flowers can be bought with spare change, here,
with stands as commonplace as the cafés of natural simplicity.
I stop -
select a white rose and pay the vendor generously,
smiling slightly as I walk past the Louvre
while holding the flower to my lips,
finding that even its petals are not as soft as his mouth on mine,
and remembering that time he held my face in his warm hands
in front of all the tourists snapping photographs of La Pyramide,
smiling at my hot, red visage,
and saying that they'd only be able to tell I was blushing if he removed his hands.
I was smiling then as I am smiling now.
But, oh, Mona, if I could only smile like you.
PARIS
Dawn comes,
a golden creamy rose and orange spreading
like the permeating pink of the blushing pommettes of an ingénue.
Sunlight catches on the rim of my wide mouthed cup,
creating a crescent of eggshell,
a sliver of light accentuated by a parallelogram of white,
precariously balanced upon smooth, sloping edges of tan,
refracts off the obsidian black of my coffee,
a sharp, spiked, ivory star in my hands.
Patches of light move slowly up my arm,
from fingertips and the dull milky ebony of wrought iron railings
up the billowing sleeve
up up past elbow to shoulders...
I can feel the sunlight sculpting them,
warming them better than a layer of cotton could ever hope to,
creating the softest of shadows beneath my collarbones
and reminding me of the way in which he taught me to love them.
The way he used to kiss them,
softly, tenderly,
tracing their path from the tips of my shoulders
to the little hollow where the two meet,
pausing -
then starting the long journey down the other.
A mere memory enough to cause a dull throb of longing from the marrow outward,
a reminder that I cannot love my collarbones alone.
It is not quite warm, yet.
Not quite Paris au printemps,
and so my hands find their way to a dark green trenchcoat,
insulating enough and a barrier against any possible showers.
I struggle to tie the straps around my waist,
fingers fumbling until I am in the middle of la rue,
saved from motorists by the youth of the day,
sighing and taking comfort in the slow rapping of shoes I never thought I would wear,
a gentle tap-tap on stones worn smooth through the centuries.
The road,
the buildings,
so steeped in history that I cannot help but feel their stories ooze out,
between the cracks,
and remind me that this is not the first.
The collar is high,
stiff and striking of subtle sophistication,
and as I walk down the road, it brushes ever so lightly against my jawbone,
a tickle so imperceptible that it borders on imagination,
and suddenly I am no longer aware of anything other than the small square inch of skin
between os and tissu,
a ready excuse to forget that shadow always comes with sunlight.
Flowers can be bought with spare change, here,
with stands as commonplace as the cafés of natural simplicity.
I stop -
select a white rose and pay the vendor generously,
smiling slightly as I walk past the Louvre
while holding the flower to my lips,
finding that even its petals are not as soft as his mouth on mine,
and remembering that time he held my face in his warm hands
in front of all the tourists snapping photographs of La Pyramide,
smiling at my hot, red visage,
and saying that they'd only be able to tell I was blushing if he removed his hands.
I was smiling then as I am smiling now.
But, oh, Mona, if I could only smile like you.