Writhing

I wait
and stir
and stew 
and spin.
Writhing 
I long for you 
I yearn and 
I grin.
This passion is vexing 
and wanton
and bent.
I squirm
I wiggle 
I smile 
and I wince.
You contort
and thrash 
and agonize 
and twist.
I drip
I giggle 
I moan 
and I release.
Sighs 
and murmurs 
and incoherent pleas.
Breathless gasping 
and uncontainable relief. 

Empty chair

A loose thread is so easily undone 

I was once woven into your stories and sewn inside your heart

But our seams frayed 

And your words once threaded in desire now spin on a metal spool 

Am I just a pincushion in your basket 

You don’t finger my thimble anymore 

You prick your fingers on new needles

You won’t cut me into shape or bleed on my fabric 

I’m just another unfinished garment

Laying on the shoulders of an empty chair 

There are pieces of me that died too long ago. I don’t burn my soul on them like I used to. They’re not aesthetic, or for reasoning, or for false sympathies, yet I wonder if I’m ever going to be able to feel as alive, again. I wish, my how I wish I could grieve those passions long forgotten, I just don’t feel the smoldering flames tickling my soul anymore. I wish I could say the fire was unconscious, or suffocated but I don’t daydream like I used to. I think maybe it’s time to mourn the ash so dreams can rise reborn. 

Is it a character flaw or a virtue to think instead of act? Action can mean progress or failure; action can prevent despair fueled by regret? 

But isn’t action also something as simple yet effective, as a kiss? 

Winter feels like grief, like uncertain grief; both the suffering and the moments in between. It leaves you so cold.

To be held in your gaze, like the astonishing truth of a sunrise and the warmth and tenderness of a sunset. 

Shouldn’t have

I want to swallow sunsets and be held in the yawn of sunrises. 

I never asked to hold it gently in my hands. 

To speak so generously with clouds rolling like thunder and bending lightning with my tongue. 

My voice touching everything, and hugging quiet shadows tenderly.

Maybe if something as beautiful as the sky lived inside me, then someone would want to love me like they love the sky. 

Maybe they would want to put their mouth on mine and feel love grow inside of them.

But. I was always wanting things I shouldn’t have.