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.

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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.

Sometimes, I wonder

Sometimes I wonder,
if you’ll ever text me,
call me,
reach me after your:
“Can you do me a favor?”
list expires.

I wonder,
if the day will come
when you
call me your love
as if I actually were;

address me as honey
as if I could
sweeten the lie
that I’m yours
to be claimed as such;

call shotgun
in a crowded room
so everyone knows
that the place next to me
has already been taken,

name me your sweety
or all the endearing titles
you claim me to be
and actually mean it,
more than I wish
you’d stop saying them.

I’m sorry
that I can smell your intentions
to return my emotions
back to the foster home
you corrupted them from.

I’m sorry
that it’s difficult to adapt
to the facade you adopt
when we’re in public,
as if we’re familiar strangers
seeking for custody
of things we’re already content
to lose.

You’ve flipped me
cover to cover
and I wonder,
if you even know
what the preface
to my disappointment looks like.
You’ve seen it often,
but nothing seems to soften
you to acknowledgement.

I get it,
you’re undercover.
God forbid your friends,
family,
or pets discover
that we actually talk
more often than
you lead them to believe,
more passionate
than you want to admit,
more boldly
than your want to stifle us
into secrecy.

So I wonder,
if another soul will ever know
by the slip of a tongue,
the faultline in your smile,
the losing battle
your makeup
effaces into blooming blushes
in my presence,
or will we blossom
into the margins
of each other’s lives,
scribbled into a footnote
we lost our point of reference from
now too worn to decipher,
to wonder,
too worn to care.