In the Dark

the chronic crackling catches
on the lumps in my throat
with each inhale

every forced expiration
is a labored, hollow whistling
keeping me awake

tiny punctures in the fragile lining
widen with every blink,
becoming jagged fissures

until I gasp and grasp
and try desperately to grab onto anything
that will help me patch the holes

so I close my eyes
and line these bankrupt lungs
with your whispered I love you’s
in the dark

-image via Pinterest, art by Codex Anotomicus

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Never Let Go

his eyes saw right through me,
a tender microscope

his heart echoed time,
a soulful jazz that enveloped

and his strong arms around me
felt like hope

so I held on tight,
and never let go

-image via Tumblr, source unknown; older poem slightly revised

Magic

I thought I knew about a lot of things before I met you

but I never knew what slow, deep kisses meant,
or that they could last all night long

I never knew what the smell of the first morning breeze could do as my head lay upon your chest,
or how that breeze could carry me throughout the day

I never knew how my own chest could ache in your absence,
or that I could smile all the way to my fingertips when we joined again

I never knew I could get butterflies deep in my belly every time you kissed my neck,
or that my desire for you could consume me

I never knew that shared laughter could cure almost anything,
and shared tears could say much more than words

I never knew I could feel fire in my veins when you hurt,
or that my heart’s fullness could spill over when you smile

I never knew I could need like this,
that I could feel swaddled by another so completely,
I can finally rest

I thought I knew all about hope before I met you –
but that was before I believed in magic

-Image credit 7-themes.com; This is for M, the love of my life!; slightly revised older poem

Your Poem

I am your poem,
your intonation and emphasis,
the comma, your pause,
your exclamation

I am your poem,
your meter and rhyme,
the period, your end,
your alliteration

I am your poem
your metaphor and simile,
the hyphen, your joint,
your connotation

I am your words,
melodic and lyrical,
the ones you don’t speak,
your personification

I am your poem

-image found on Tumblr, source unknown; shared as part of dVerse Poet Pub’s Open Link Night #191 in 2017 and revised/edited for this Valentine’s Day

Sacred

when he kissed me,
I was pure, cosmic combustion,
an exploding urge from some uncharted depth,
stirring this frenetic need to break free from something I didn’t even realize was holding me back,
while sinking into this enveloping feeling I never wanted to end;
it was the quickening of some strange, welcomed metamorphosis

whatever was happening between us had this unspoiled sheen to it,
leaving behind a layer of something magical that came off on my fingers when I touched it,
like the precious powder from a moth’s delicate wing,
something so intimate and sacred that was meant to be grasped,
but still set free to fly

-artwork by Gustav Klimt, The Kiss

Life Itself

I don’t know if I know how to do this, if I know how to be loved this much, if I even know what love looks like

is it the way my heart aches with joy when you smile with your eyes?

is it the way I feel my own rib cage squeeze when our little one needs someone, and you scoop her up in a whole body embrace?

is it the freedom I feel to allow my mind to go wherever it needs to go as we sit next to one another on the couch?

is it the breath I exhale when you reach for me as you drift off to sleep?

is it the easiness that comes with deliberate familiarity, with 25 years of growing alongside one another?

is it the ability to argue until we run out of words and the knowing no more are needed?

is it waking everyday with you?

maybe love is in the smallest of choices, in the simple, everyday moments;
what if love is life itself?

-image via Pexels

Mine

Ahh, look at her –
there’s something inevitable about her that draws me in;
my eyes can’t get enough,
I’m addicted

she has this quiet, humble confidence and these kind, welcoming eyes;
a classic, artful line about her

the graceful curve of her shoulder muscles elude to a tranquil strength,
her delicate neck and the unpretentious way she holds herself, mesmerizing,
a tactile symmetry that whispers my name

the way the silky, black fabric rests on the soft edges of her collarbone,
making me wish I could follow them beneath,
her exposed upper back begging for soft kisses,
for finger trails that cause the rest of her to arch in anticipation,
making me want to see just that

and there she sits,
tucking in a few stray strands of that beautiful, auburn hair,
twisted so effortlessly off her shoulders,
completely unaware of the attention,
her beauty so natural,
an easy, feminine elegance,
all woman,
mine

I’m going to walk over there,
going to wrap my arms around her and lead her to dance floor,
kiss the muscled line running from behind her ear and down her neck,
the one that leads to that inviting dip in her clavicle

I’m going to listen to her gasp against my cheek,
feel her heartbeat quicken beneath my palms

I’m going to hold her so close,
she won’t ever forget how I feel about her,
she won’t ever remember a time she wasn’t loved

-Image credit Öykü, found on Tumblr; poem inspired by this beautiful image

Today is my two year blog anniversary! This is one of my first poems on the blog, one of my favorites, and one of the most popular. I’ve done a bit of editing from the original (like most poems I write).

I’m so grateful to be here, and thank you all for sharing this space with me!

Far From Home

We are so far from home.

Your smiles are a blast of arctic air that rattles my bones, and I can’t seem to get warm. I shiver when you speak in those strange smiles filled with politeness, the ones that shout aloud that something is missing. I ache when our eyes meet, all depth, layers locked behind a frigid wall of fear.

We have become roommates. We talk about logistics and practical things, small talk that makes my skin itch and my heart yearn for yesterdays. Screams stick in the dry spots of my throat. My heart is a muscle whose memory is beginning to atrophy.

My body misses you. It misses us. I had become so accustomed to your touch, even the most trivial of grazes, and now my body is a plant, drooping without water. My skin is drying and cracking, as if your touch had been the thing that was keeping it alive.

Every day is torture. I forget and remember, forget and remember. I expect your hand to reach for mine while I read my book and you watch the news. I close my eyes, expecting to feel the familiarity of your body moving in behind mine as I scramble the eggs. But then I remember this tired place of treading near the surface, this folded page of resentment and fear we keep returning to.

And lately, I’ve caught myself stroking my neck while I drink my tea, running my finger down my forearm while we watch our favorite show. I tuck myself in, wrapping my arms around myself when I go to sleep. It’s better than crying so hard I feel like I can’t breathe.

We are so from home.

-image via Pexels; not indicative of current life happenings

He Bakes

have you ever really watched a man make bread?

the way he concentrates,
his unruly brow furrowed so seriously as he carefully reads the recipe and measures each ingredient

the way he bites his bottom lip,
his tongue sneaking out to wet it before his top teeth clench down

the way his fingers ever-so-slightly pinch the top corner of the cookbook page,
effortlessly gliding down the backside with a push as he turns it

the way the flour powders his cheek and nose and backside where he’s unconsciously touched himself as he mixes and measures

the way his forefinger delicately and evenly slides across the top of the measuring cup to level it,
swiping away the extra ingredients

the way he so fluidly moves around the kitchen,
following the recipe from step to step,
organizing and arranging,
in control

the way his hands envelope the dough,
pushing and folding in rhythm,
knuckles and palms pressing and molding it precisely

the way his forearms lend strength to his hands in ripples and waves of movement

the way his shoulder and upper back muscles so swiftly tense and release in knots and threads as his arms work

his easy patience,
waiting for the dough to rise

the persuasive curve of his backside and the clenching of his thighs as he bends to smoothly slide the baking sheet into the oven

his pride and eagerness to share when the bread comes from the oven,
perfectly baked,
ready to be devoured

the bread is heavenly,
but I’d rather devour the baker

-image via Pixabay

Lucky

Twenty-five years ago, I kissed this boy for the first time.
He looked at me, and it didn’t matter where I began or where I was.
He made it feel like we could exist in a world where every day might contain at least a tiny spark of magic.
He made truth feel like magic.

The time we spent together began to feel like helium in my veins, and his eyes were the most tangible slice of hope I’d ever seen.

He still looks at me like I’m his forever.
I still cry sometimes after he closes his eyes and falls asleep, because I feel so grateful.
Not because he loves me without reservation, but because he exists, and I am so lucky to be a part of that existence.

-image via Pexels