Okay, so I met this amazing guy last week, and now I won't see him for a month which sucks. but, i wrote a poem and am wondering where it needs work...and stuff. so...um...i think i am falling in love. anyway, here it is:
El Corazon: For the Love of Coffee and Fingerless
Gloves/I will trade my spine for your hips any day.
At the pawn shop, where I was window
shopping for your heart, I grapple
through flesh and sternum,
deciding I liked the beat and the hollow
places where bones end.
Shivering in the 2am Christmas-lit plaza,
on tip toes to consume you once more.
Squeezing hard through fingerless
gloves to your heart line-trying
to read your palms, your smile lines
Turning to me, you sing along softly:
Ill drink you down
Cheeks sore from grinning-
Eyes tired from staring-
Our tattoos will have a conversation
about Pop Surrealism,
while our eyes silently discuss the
irrationality of love.
Huffing warm coffee-breath clouds
into dusk coldened cars.
Returning to car windowed lips
for one last kissgoodbye.
Tracing the hills of Santa Fe, like
the rises and fallings of your skeleton
under my pressing fingers.
Like I said, theres something
awkward about being sure;
grasping at the rungs in your spine
as if you are already slipping away.
El Corazon: For the Love of Coffee and Fingerless
Gloves/I will trade my spine for your hips any day.
At the pawn shop, where I was window
shopping for your heart, I grapple
through flesh and sternum,
deciding I liked the beat and the hollow
places where bones end.
Shivering in the 2am Christmas-lit plaza,
on tip toes to consume you once more.
Squeezing hard through fingerless
gloves to your heart line-trying
to read your palms, your smile lines
Turning to me, you sing along softly:
Ill drink you down
Cheeks sore from grinning-
Eyes tired from staring-
Our tattoos will have a conversation
about Pop Surrealism,
while our eyes silently discuss the
irrationality of love.
Huffing warm coffee-breath clouds
into dusk coldened cars.
Returning to car windowed lips
for one last kissgoodbye.
Tracing the hills of Santa Fe, like
the rises and fallings of your skeleton
under my pressing fingers.
Like I said, theres something
awkward about being sure;
grasping at the rungs in your spine
as if you are already slipping away.