Poetry is fun.
The Return of Sleeping Beauty
Admitting I want you
is like watching Oedipus laugh through his own blinding.
Especially now, as I stand on this porch beside you
watching nothing but my bare feet picking up
the dirt I will carry over your window ledge.
My destination will end up as obvious
as the lit up maps on subway trains
always tracing the path to your bedside.
Two people can only share a shadow
in the brief moments before their eyes adjust.
Being with you is playing a game of frisbee alone
and blaming myself when it hits the ground.
I should have tripped and shattered bone
to even feel my fingertips brush your edges.
Then smile at the sweet raspberry taste of blood
oozing down my throat and say, "I tried".
If I laughed now would you be relieved?
Would you pour me more vodka
and recite me more poetry i wrote two years ago
to let the tension melt from your upper back?
Here is where you kiss me
to make sure I can't speak.
Do the words I whisper to you ever hunt you
through the Grimm's Fairytale Forest of your dreams?
Did he glance back over his shoulder as I whispered
I'd take apart your bones
just to suck at each drop of marrow
and chew on orange rinds to catch
the flavor of your bitterness?
Memory stain me like old sweat,
or like the remains of blood stains
that have soaked deep within this mattress.
Just as part of you is now soaking into me.
There is only one word left
inside of me to offer to you-
Nothing left except my fingerpaintings
tracing on your skin
while all I can spell is "lonely, lonely, lonely"
in the red shining out like a stoplight
as you finally quit breathing.
Admitting I want you
is like watching Oedipus laugh through his own blinding.
Especially now, as I stand on this porch beside you
watching nothing but my bare feet picking up
the dirt I will carry over your window ledge.
My destination will end up as obvious
as the lit up maps on subway trains
always tracing the path to your bedside.
Two people can only share a shadow
in the brief moments before their eyes adjust.
Being with you is playing a game of frisbee alone
and blaming myself when it hits the ground.
I should have tripped and shattered bone
to even feel my fingertips brush your edges.
Then smile at the sweet raspberry taste of blood
oozing down my throat and say, "I tried".
If I laughed now would you be relieved?
Would you pour me more vodka
and recite me more poetry i wrote two years ago
to let the tension melt from your upper back?
Here is where you kiss me
to make sure I can't speak.
Do the words I whisper to you ever hunt you
through the Grimm's Fairytale Forest of your dreams?
Did he glance back over his shoulder as I whispered
I'd take apart your bones
just to suck at each drop of marrow
and chew on orange rinds to catch
the flavor of your bitterness?
Memory stain me like old sweat,
or like the remains of blood stains
that have soaked deep within this mattress.
Just as part of you is now soaking into me.
There is only one word left
inside of me to offer to you-
Nothing left except my fingerpaintings
tracing on your skin
while all I can spell is "lonely, lonely, lonely"
in the red shining out like a stoplight
as you finally quit breathing.