my baby

12/21/2009

i miss your hair

the way it curls around my fingers

as i wrap around you

i miss waking up to you

and falling asleep with you

your arm loosely gripped around my waist

come home

not home to you

but home to me

just home.

just home.

where you arms fit tight

and your lips move light

whisper sweet things in my ear

whisper till i drift off near

your arms, your sweetness, i miss it all, my sweetness

come home

i can't sleep without you

come home

my pillow is no substitute

this poem just reeks of desperation

but, my love, i am not desperate

but so far in love with you

that i need you.

so come home

my baby.

it's an angry one.

12/13/2009

my lips are dry, my skin is cold

the wind outside, frightfully bold,

and you, my dear, warm as can be,

only when lacking my company.

every attempt just so half hearted

sweetheart, finish what you started,

my shoes you borrowed, walk for a mile,

you can't just fuck me till i smile.

i write to you so that you see

preserving a friendship is easy.

how many times do you call me best friend

as conversations pitter out and end

how many times is it my apology

when i'm sad from what you say to me.

and i put up your pictures in my room,

it's your birthday i'll blow up all the balloons,

i'll find an excuse to keep us in touch,

remember my name when you're busy and such.

so why try so hard when there's no other side

when it's so one-way that i fucking divide

because i really need to be able to believe

that people are like me, they care, and naive

is not the word for feeling this way

i want to know someone will try and will stay

stop disappearing when there's something new

i know people change, but you're not fucking you

you're this copy of someone's drunken imitation

and sorry but it's awful, this fucking creation

so try for once putting some work into this

because it's not a chore, it's a fucking kiss,

and stop leaving when we're talking, christ's sake,

come borrow more shit, all you do is take,

and this thing is not real, so could you just awake,

i'm tired of this, you're so goddamn fake.

been holding in screams, letting myself deafen

so please could you try to put some effort in?

revolutions per minute.

12/4/2009

like an archaeologist with her face to the dirt

trying to go beyond the dusty surface, i lay

my head upon your chest, and hear

the beat so strong that it sounds as though

two hearts lay nestled between two lungs

inhaling evenly and smoothly.

there is a pow wow in your chest, drum

beats after every step of an old Native dancer

wearing feathers and hides.

the dancers stomping in time to the beat

and the drum moves them from one lung to the

next, they reach up to the sky.

there is a war between your lungs, drumming

as the battle line closes in upon the heart that

recently invaded your chest.

soldiers march forward and man their

weapons as the enemy reaches their sights, cock

their rifles, ready, aim and

fire is lying in your chest, crackling, burning,

magicians entice the crowd that gathers by flinging

powder inward and changing

the colour of the fire, leaping from red to blue,

and fire grows larger, to purple, to green,

to white, pure white

like the white on the feather of the oldest dancer

or the snow fallen on the dead soldiers there

or the purest idea there ever was

i am the fire, i am the drum beat, i am the dancer,

i am the second heart nestled in your chest,

dancing, fighting, performing for this love.