I could listen to your soulful melodies sung to me, lovely
all night long
Play with the curls that fall in mishappened beauty past the long lashed brown irises,
That I simply not resist
I could paint worlds, and write oceans to each and every song
Nothing can describe how your lips feel touching mine, even now sitting lone & my heads still spinning
When I left that night he told me I was winning,
Oh. The teasing game, we open our souls and pull heartstrings with no shame
And it's you my dear for these arrythmatic heart patterns, I blame
Head against your broad chest,
I know you feel the same

you are endless wordplay recorded over a blank coffeeshop soundtrack. your lips throw out pun after pun, but your throat hums to the ghost of a song you swore you didn't listen to.

you are smiles across the breakfast table, blinking too-little sleep from your too-bright eyes, talking too loudly about how you don't need rest when you can get drunk on life. i laugh quietly. the dark circles give you away, my dear.

you are long nights and warm blankets and repeating "we should go to bed" until it sounds like a joke. it is hard to fall asleep when the blood is singing in my veins and my dreams are coming true right in front of me.

you are soft corners and sharp edges, too strong to stand firm and too fragile to break. your footsteps falter and even your confidence has cracks, but i'll admit it's comforting to know that you're just as scared as i am sometimes.

you are fast-talking and over-explaining, and you never do anything halfheartedly so you are also lying-too-easily. but it's okay i never wanted the truth anyway, i hated how it dimmed the memories and haunted the empty space on my mattress. i like how that space is taken up by the curve of your body instead.

you are called a paradox, white wolf or black sheep, predator and prey at odds and at peace. and you are called downward-flowing, like the way i am falling faster and harder for you. then again, maybe i like metaphors too much. maybe your name is just a name. maybe it's the most beautiful sound i've ever heard.
but i call you love because you are the only reason i have any inkling of what it means.

in the pleasure of discovering
words rhymes rhythms
i'm a gluttonous poet.

day and night
bite of my growing appetite
makes me sink low

i don't notice
broken pieces
shattered peaces
around me

i breathe in writing
eat and drink
poetry

crazed obsessed stressed
my poetry
like any other debauchery
is an escape ride
someplace to hide

i'm a poet
subservient
to the pleasures of words rhymes rhythms.

i wonder if the doors in the house you grew up in
started slamming themselves to save your father the trouble.
i wonder if you can remember the last time you prayed,
and if you had trouble unfolding your hands.
i wonder if your mother knows
about the collection of hearts you hide in your closet,
i wonder if she could tell mine apart from the rest.
i wonder if your shoes know the reason why
you keep them by the back door and not your bedside.
and sometimes, i wonder
if you ever think about that night when i told you,
you wouldn't need to drink so much if you had me.
but it seems like we only speak when you've got body on your brain,
whiskey in your glass,
your judgement is overcast,
and you know i'm too weak to ignore you.
i learned how to translate your texts
from drunken mess back into english.
i am fluent in apology, but i don't ask you for them anymore.
this is just how it is.
it's not enough for either of us
but ******* it we are not above settling.
so i will ignore her name on your breath,
and you will ignore the fact that this means something to me.
i always thought the first time i kissed you,
it would be on your mouth.
i just wanted to be something warm for you to sink into,
something that could convince you to stay a second night.
but i sneak you out in the early morning,
and you take a piece of my pride with you when you go.
i am left to nurse the hangover from a wine i've never tasted,
wondering how this is possible.
waiting for the next drunk call,
for the next time i get to pretend we are lovers,
the next time i get to live out the fantasy i am most ashamed of.
it is the one in my head where you want me when you're sober too.

- m.f.