The Beauty of Distance

When I first met you, you were swimming. Your body was almost entirely concealed by the blue-green glistening of the lake at twilight. I sat at the dock, your quiet observer, and watched you each time you emerged from beneath the horizon. I looked down at where my feet should have been, engulfed by the same sharply cold water, and turned a half smile at the thought that this substance alone is what connects us. We did not need to speak a word, or even acknowledge the other's existence. Still we were one; joined by our own desires for solitude, for escape. My eyes were transfixed, mesmerized by sight of your hands smoothing over your long wet hair as silver drops scattered off of you, back to their origins. The waves traced your figure and urged me to rise up from the shore and go to you, yet, as to not disturb our symbiosis, I remained in my place. I watched the setting sun bathe you in red and orange hues as you continued to make laps and as eveningtime chills began to transplant upon my skin. You displayed a silent determination, propelling yourself further and further, no clear destination in sight. I yearned to join you, to achieve the same private freedom through simple yet concentrated movement. I did not know how. I simply sat there soaking you in and being grateful for the encounter yet to come.

Fast Talker, Sleep Walker, and What a Nice Little Girl You Are

Fast Talker, Sleep Walker, and What a Nice Little Girl You are

Unplug, she says
Waiting in the wings devoutly
As whispers hover over her thin layer of skin
She walks a tightrope
Smashes lightbulbs with tiny fists
And watches them bleed in clever drops
Sleep is her number one enemy
Or best friend, she can't decide
A numbing ride had brought her here
To a false awakening
A pretend spring
And where she thought she would blossom, she fell
Tumbled beyond the reach of any arm or mind
She lays in silence
For silence knows her, sees her
But has never graced her with its presence
And so she is halved
With only pieces of her face visible in daylight
Others shattered, torn, or taken
Buried in bus terminals and stale bars
She peddles pounds of dignity from one side of the city to the other
Never trusting what she can come home to
And what will be washed away before she returns

Smog and Thunder

Based loosely on an experience I had this weekend:

Smog and Thunder

Down the rabbit hole she goes,

Slippery, slowly,

Her fingers dragging over the bricks in the wall

One foot in front of the other.

The air is disorienting

Disfiguring

Disturbing the mental flow of information

In a room full of carefully organized chaos.

The faces are kind, though the actions appear harsh

They are loving, sweet even

As sweet as the surrender that they coax from between her lips.

The scene isn’t over

This dream has just begun

The pulsation of her flesh echoes the faint beating of a human drum

In the distance

Moans of ecstasy blossom and coast along a sea of humid breath

The conversations all blur together

Was that a sympathetic remark? A sexual advance? A thwack of the tongue, a distraction perhaps.

Her muscles cannot decide whether to tense or relax.

Her blood speeds through her veins like liquid bullet juice.

Her heart pounds exquisitely.

She is invisibly bound: no object, no use.

Like some fucked up angel in a twisted funhouse,

She moves through the space, begging to make her innocence count.

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