She wears her sweet sunlight shadows and a
Sexy red sundress with a half hearted
smile and a quiet face screaming “I’m
A mess!” She lights a cigarette, just for
the image, and drives around town to look
for some one to impress. I have a bunch
of reasons to hate her – most of which I
can’t let go – but I continue to love
her, because it’s the only thing I know.
Our passions play out and we laugh at our
pause – true love never had to have a cause.
Maybe she’ll relent, maybe I’ll play along,
Every balance of breath seems to belong.
“Speak to me, move me, touch me, love me, me
we see be with thee” the words move around
The room and we get lost. We get lost in
Each other. The moment. The thought. The fact
we each worked and dreamed it into existence.
Every poem I write some how ends like this.
I write about a love that doesn’t exist.
I idealize a “her” – a girl with no name –
each couplet feels as it’s the same.
No more blank notion, no more vain ideal:
I want to know what it’s like to feel