Nostalgia

I had the strangest memory pass through my head just now. It was of you, putting on your sports bra after summer morning sex in your bed. It was most likely August after I came back from spending three months away, and so we've been going at it, trying to rediscover each other. The sex was quick, dirty, and all before breakfast. Our bodies emit their natural odors as the morning air grows warmer, juxtaposed with the occasional breeze, I am happy, blissful, and nude. This is probably not one clear memory, but rather a collection of familiar moments that all just clicked. And while I know my carnal desire for something more, something different in the future, I can't help but long for this sweet scene that exists in my past. It instructs me to cherish every lazy second because it hurts to know that this experience is no longer accessible; that it has been sealed away in an untouchable realm of what used to be us.

The Untouchable

The Untouchable

I fell in love with words on a screen
An image, a reflection, a silhouette of you.
After you are long gone,
I linger through the hallways of your consciousness,
Silently begging to be drawn forth into your heart.
I pray deeply for recognition,

the naming of things,
that have been lodged between us,

For uncontrollable reciprocation
Stolen from another
and delivered to me upon screen after shining screen.
I call out for nothing
And request a messenger who cannot be received.

Ounces

Ounces

Here I stand,
Isolated in the meadow of my mind,
Clutching your words like raindrops
Cataloging one frustration after another at the fleeting delight of each ounce passing from between my fingers.
I desperately burn you into the sturdiness of my skull
Afraid of what will happen when forgetfulness lowers itself over me as nightfall
And I am once again without your warmth.

our roots cannot imbed themselves in stone

our roots cannot imbed themselves in stone

we were never anybody special
we danced to hip-hop, jazz, swing, and salsa
we breathed in bubbles of our own intoxication
and at nightfall, we slept like the Dead
some people said of us that we were two literary
                                                               too orchestrated bodies
when, in fact, we were a tragedy in slow and steady motion