daysixteen.

a persistent perspiration.
i feel you, cradled,
in the dew on my upper lip.
my eyes digress.
i know patience would advise otherwise,
but there's something alluring about
the hint of sanctity in this mess.

a familiar tone clouds the air,
like the condensation on her bathroom mirror.
and now i'm waiting,
just like she's waiting,
but these images won't bleed any clearer.

fingers cross between cages,
tips caress hollow ribs.
and as she smiles, the taste lingers,
through the buzzing of
'she never was'
and 'i never did.'

my random musings are nondescript,
only forlorn, at best.
like how incessant thoughts
eradicate need of small talk
in the moment
gravity
beckons
her dress.

la luna

in sleep she breathes romance in rhythms

her body tired by love made.

sleep falls over her eyes,

slides between lips,

parting them

in the same gentle fashion

thighs shift

at ever-influencing fingertips.

recalling

those flesh embodied moments-

soft sweat covered backs,

foreheads, blankets.

my tongue swept against

my bottom lip

and i was to never forget

the way

she tastes.

audible correspondence,

our messages in

labored breathing and moans.

with a fistful of hair

she pushed my name

from lungs,

against and up the back

of her throat,

and at the entrance of her ear
i echoed

that i loved her just the same.

in the solitude of pleasure-laden sleep,

her grip on my arm

goes limp and drifts

and i can feel her exhales

dance past the small hairs

enshrouding

my neck.

eyelids meet at centers,

soon i'm engulfed in illusions.

and if i were to stay suspended,

held fast in unconscious's state,

i'd still remember

from when tongue and lip grazed

the exact way

she tastes.

darling, it's 'bout time to break free of...

my fingertips ached from pressing insecurities
back into the pores they seethed from.
blanketed in self-loathing
my bed of despair
flared with the heat
of degradation.
indulgence in formidable actions
was a thing of the past
collecting dust in corners,
much like the self-portrait from a moment before
when i was encased in the frame of a better time.

glass, splinters and regrets
sat deeply embedded into the soles of my feet
so that this soul of defeat
grew weary in her march alongside gravity.
my face,
scathed from reality's surface,
bled of cowardice
and of the excuses i used to leave.
clotted long enough to let me witness
all of the things i would've seen
if only i had acknowledged
the indiscretions in honesty.

without a queen the locust swarm.

i could not call her beautiful
for she surpassed that
some months ago.
i think it was in the moment
her head pressed my chest,
how she embodied
the moon's glow.

we became shape shifters of covers
underneath them, on them and beyond
and
our skin colliding echoed promises,
mouths intermittently projecting
songs in tongue.

to whom do i owe this pleasure
of this endeavor
that we venture on?
when lips press to neck
within the concave
we can taste salt
eroding the wrong.

it was just a manner of speaking
but amidst moving limbs
no words were exchanged
as we tried to make the intangible
something we could gift to one another,
something to tame.

beautiful was saved for
those nights we fought
to create logic,
to physically implore.
as we continually tried
to surpass it;
discover the warmth of romance,
and of other bliss laden worlds.

how they fall apart.

exclusiveness is not permitted
when hearts are bestowed upon others.
in. she wants. in.
craves to know the thoughts.
what resides in the negative space
between the teeth
of the gears
churning inside of her.

felt the first sting of insecurity:
'but you beckoned me here
placed me between lovers
past, future, and present
it was beautiful then,
but my inadequacies are aching now.'

arbitrary actions
flirted intensely
with abstract words
and i watched the line
between anger and ignorance blur.
studied the way the fingers
on the hands of
conformity and
co-dependency
interlocked.
how thumbs hid
close between palms
clammy with
embarrassment
and doubt.

in the desecration of the wall
that guarded and supported
mending tissue,
i felt the twitching
between ribs
cast thick blood
that languished over
opportunities
yet to pass.

my eyes, they are small in size, but they see enormous things.

though such beauty should be
treasured,
you are not a trophy,
not some kind of ornament
to be adorned with.

you are a figure
with love and truth
embedded in the still dust
of her craters.
yr glowing image
stays present throughout the night -
pure and simple and dangerous.

i see now,
yr on fire.

the golden year.

i had written this
on the back of an envelope
that i had been meaning to send
and i must have been writing
with a brokenhearted pen
because each word i wrote bled heavy
into the papers within.

encompassed by the feeling of solitude
brought about by silent receivers,
microphones held cold
while they listened
from lack of breath
from human speakers.

felt the shifting of plates
in my head
as it formulated
and twirled
the day that i knew
i was no longer yr world.

and i suppose all of the miles
combine and multiply
as moments becomes whiles
and even threads of adoration wear thin
when happiness is prolonged solely by denial.

reality hits hard
when she throws
amicable forms yr way.
and its in the twinges that run through you
to her quivering thighs
where temptations aid sweetly
to morality's decay -
so that when she asks me to stay
i'll know of no other way.

and in exploration
of uncharted territories
i'll be saddened
more than ever before
as it'll be the day that i'll know
you are no longer my world.