Musicans are Yummy
I forgot to post this poem I just wrote...
That Exceptional Naked Feeling
When You Converse to a Musician
I always try to make him leave, but as
he goes, a part of him stays.
before he loved me, there must have been
a kindred heart who taught him how to
use the nostalgic memories to keep us together
while we’re apart. He speaks of her as we lay
Bed, our arms touching, connecting our bodies.
Why do I want to catch his lips with mine
when I know he didn’t chose her, this woman who
seems familiar, connected somehow? Is he, even now collecting my
Shooting stars and satellites in a peace bag, Stitched
with some irreversible thread that a seamstress longs
for, and the points of my stars stick
harshly out of the bag which resembles a porcupine?
He glides over to his piano, glistening in the moonlight,
as if to demonstrate his reverent power over me,
he plays and claims a part of
my soul a little with the staccato notes and with
brusque sharps and dull flats like the matte of my make-up
smeared upon my pillow and his cheek.
the music sings
of a fire that is burning within my soul consuming
my thoughts, ensnaring my desires
the music changes, into a soft flowing melody that reminds me
of the calm before the storm
the mist clings to my cheeks,
and I can feel his passion which is endless
That Exceptional Naked Feeling
When You Converse to a Musician
I always try to make him leave, but as
he goes, a part of him stays.
before he loved me, there must have been
a kindred heart who taught him how to
use the nostalgic memories to keep us together
while we’re apart. He speaks of her as we lay
Bed, our arms touching, connecting our bodies.
Why do I want to catch his lips with mine
when I know he didn’t chose her, this woman who
seems familiar, connected somehow? Is he, even now collecting my
Shooting stars and satellites in a peace bag, Stitched
with some irreversible thread that a seamstress longs
for, and the points of my stars stick
harshly out of the bag which resembles a porcupine?
He glides over to his piano, glistening in the moonlight,
as if to demonstrate his reverent power over me,
he plays and claims a part of
my soul a little with the staccato notes and with
brusque sharps and dull flats like the matte of my make-up
smeared upon my pillow and his cheek.
the music sings
of a fire that is burning within my soul consuming
my thoughts, ensnaring my desires
the music changes, into a soft flowing melody that reminds me
of the calm before the storm
the mist clings to my cheeks,
and I can feel his passion which is endless