Honestly

I think they said
we look good together;
wasn’t sure if it was in reference to:
our handmedown,
mismatched overalls that we wore as skin,
your long and layered
my short and wavy hair,
or that our hands held
could almost pass for the flyest jordans,
with your lighter
laced-like fingers gripped around mine;
so I’m
still not sure
if I should be offended or not.

I wish
I could believe them,
nod in agreement
like a bobblehead,
bouyant on waves of optimism,
but the pessimist in me
still holds grudges.

Honestly,
your compliments sometimes
reminds me of the days when
your ancestors declared it sin
to look upon a woman
shades lighter than my palms;
when they would’ve
bound our hands,
noose us on trees
as they tried to make
our whole race
Autumn like leaves,
but this is Spring
and there’ll be no Winter
to wither our love.

Just in Case You Forgot

You’re beautiful,
just in case
you might not feel like it.

Just in case,
he didn’t notice you were,
or his eyes
have defined beauty
to no longer look
homonymously like you.

Just in case,
it didn’t sound genuine
after you pointed out the fact that
you’re wearing one of his “favorites.”

Just in case,
it was meant
for the woman behind you,
beside you,
to the you
they mistook you for,
as if you aren’t worthy
of the compliment itself.

Just in case,
they sell you the lie
to hide behind makeup
to buy into their
campaign of acceptance.

You’re beautiful,
inside and out.
You’re beautiful,
without the filters.

Just in case you forget,
when no one else
seems to care or notice,
you are beautiful.

To be continued

Before last night,
I was an optimistic skeptic
with a synthesized spine
pining to support
an aborted dream,
a deserted hypothesis,
a hope
well nigh stifled down throat,
trampled by the reality
that love
never seems to beat
synonymously between lovers
with antonymous definitions.

Our chemistry,
needed no catalyst.
No enzyme
could accelerate us
into zero gravity
fast enough
to fuse our fall,
into the unanimous decision
that one of us,
will be forced to watch
the others’ orbital decay,
cremation upon descension
into an unforgiving ozone
of nostalgic skylines.
But the death of us,
will be brilliance ignited.

Last night,
what we lit
was more than a flickering,
vacillating flame of passion.
To date,
I can still count on one hand
how many times our first kiss
was stolen,
hijacked,
and left stranded
void of any reason
to believe our lips,
to ever be bold and naked enough
for honesty to undress
before us.

Last night,
your dimples
didn’t seduce me 
more than your sensual fingertips,
double dipping
into subtle skimming
along my back,
as if to read more
into my contour
than you’ve arched into mine.
I desired
to peruse the Braille
across your skin,
be fluent
in its idioms,
versed in the vernacular frame
of your curves.
We were as beautiful
as italicized calligraphy
losing our identities.

Last night, your lips,
were more than invited
to this inauguration ceremony,
but there was nothing formal
or orthodoxed in the way
we osculated.
We postulated
more sinuous signs
than we
were inclined to reveal.

I slipped,
you slid,
we sipped ourselves
into synaptic junctions
of stripped inhibitions,
reserved to be sensitived
by teasing tides of
rocking hips;
we were bent
to be shipwrecks
recovering our ruins
from a shore we both expected
to break upon.

Before last night,
memories of the you I loved
were finally being archived
into a forgetful past;
you were inscribed
into less of my poetry,
I penned
the majority
of our lives together
on a white flag
flailing regrets,
failing to realize
that you’ll always be
my inspiration for a lifetime,
a dream
never left aborted,
only docked in a bay
seeking voyage.

Waiting

You were a Lincoln,
four Abe’s tall
and an N.Y skyscraper
of stories to tell,
of how you
[fell]
for every upside down 6′ 11″
walking cataclysm,
that promised to fashion you
into a date worth remembering.

Jukebox cheeks
expelled wind-chime laughter,
plastered smile
conceals disaster,
morse code pulse
crescendos faster,
sapphire eyes
resemble Casper;
we all knew that they would ghost you, tempo through for wounds erode you.

Still.

I will wait for you,
like rush hour traffic
for a drawbridge,
like a bride’s face
bridled in fiance’s coma
after torn reintroductions.

Still.

Waning
Anticipation.
Inanimate.
Tinted
In
Nude
Gullibility.

I wait.

image

Dedication: For You

May every morning find you
ready to wrestle
every obstacle bent
on reminding you
of the impossible,
the improbable.

May every morning
find you living
to love again,
loving
to live again.

May every sunrise
greet your eyes with inspiration,
find your smile
seeking to save
someone who’s forgotten
how to put on theirs.

May the dew,
instill in you
a reason to let go
of what pains you the most
like weakness
leaving the soul.

Most of all,
may this morning
remind you that
you’re special enough
to be thought of,
always.

image

Would You Close the Blinds?

We awoke
to gentle, liquefied knocks
pleading our window
for entrance;
watched the drops
tear-up from rejection
only to be held with comfort
by the pane.

We caught the sun
peaking thru the shades again
as stealthily as children do;
tip-toe along the sheets
to steal glimpses of your smile.
You were always breathtaking
in morning blush,
so much that my lungs
would asphyxiate,
searching for ways
to enlarge its cage
just to breathe you in
deeper.

So I pulled you in
closer,
closer than fractions
of milliseconds,
as if to exchange
my atoms for an eve
of your dimples,
these sheets for your skin;
or to ink your desires
on my nervous system,
til loving you
becomes a reflex too hard
to ignore.

When words become as anchors
too heavy to be spoken,
let’s cut the line
with our tongues;
eclipse the ellipse
between our lips
by taking sips
of each other’s.

Let us
abort the past
and deliver nothing
but more of ourselves,
our patience,
as presents left vacant
to be filled
with a dash of time,
worth a morning we both
could sleep in to.

Thank You

Sometimes, I call her Ms. Dimples.
Her good days
are weeping clouds
and rain dances,
when she wears her
ever-present, effervescent smile;
shoots one my way
and usually,
that’s all it takes to nail me
coffin silent.
On days when it’s her smile
that precipitates the blues from her sky
to the point of drought,
her eyes whisper:
don’t ask,
hug me now and just
hold me til the rain comes.

She’s five feet
of inspiration,
two inches of attitude,
size six in shoes to prove it,
keep your compliments
behind your tongue
if you don’t want to lose it
type of woman and that’s
just thee appetizers.

She’s mainly, a main course
of confusion at times,
especially when she speaks in opposites; her polars are clearly bygone
and I’m,
the lunatic addicted to the lunacy
she wields in me.

So straitjacket us
if the devil is the tailor
sewing humanity into
the seams of our genes,
when the stitches of perfection
become undone.

I love this woman
for being the seamless fusion
of aesthetics and gray matter,
of nonchalance and benevolence,
for pushing
when I didn’t know how,
for giving,
living,
and syncing our minds
into depths that make secrets shallow.
She once asked me:
“Where has being nice ever got you?”
and I think I finally know the answer.

Close enough to let me love you
is as far as I ever needed to go.