a poet like me never gets lonely;
i have my words to caresss my lips
and my thoughts to hug me tight;
no i am never lonely,
not with my turtleneck warming my chest
and my heart beating as a constant drum of my extradorinary life.
my company lays inside,
oh how i am loved.
take me to Paris
so i can butcher beautiful words and mimic foreign accents
and drink incredibly expensive coffee
and pretend i like tea at 3 in the afternoon.
i will walk around while simultaneously falling in love with the romance language subliminally spoken
take me to Paris
so that i can take in the overwhelming scent of
freshly printed poems and bakery goods and cry because
please brain, i beg of you,
give me a break today.
i think too much,
but apparently that’s what
gives a writer the upper hand.
who said i wanted the pen in the first place?
yet it’s been handed to me.
therefore, i will let my thoughts spill over in floods
and watch the words fall like honey from my mouth and prick like the thorny stem of a rose.
you say you’re no good for me,
let me be the judge of that.
i have to bring my finger to your lips to stop you from uttering
those words that bring saddness to your eyes and i want to kiss those
you’re good for me,
enough for me,
i find myself doing what he does
because it reminds me of when his arms were around me,
and his fingers were interlocked with mine.
i cannot refrain from mimicking the small beauties of his ways,
they are a part of me now,
a part of me i don’t ever want to lose.
i find myself laughing like he does,
asking like he does,
and it’s as comforting as a drawn out hug of his,
the one where i wrap my arms around to the small of his back and
press my face to his chest and feel his heart beat.
i find myself wanting to be where he is,
but i can’t be too selfish with his time and presence so i keep his
ways wrapped up in mine and i’ve found that it keeps him close.
my words might come out as simple as sugar
they mean the world in all its richness.