I think I miss you, and this poem is still bad

You’re still here

I thought you might have left by now

(Forgetting was never going to be easy)

I’m starting to compare other girls to you

Looking for one to pick up your mantle

Or really replace you all together

No such luck

So, instead, I’m writing you one of those bad poems you asked me not to write.

I’m sorry

I still miss you

Last night you were incredible.

I felt you on me for an hour after we peeled our bodies apart.

Last night you captivated my every sense.

Your scent

Your taste

Your skin

The look of your face as your hair hung down over top of me

The sound of your moans through gritted teeth

We crashed against the sheets along the shoreline of my bed,

and lay waste among the wreckage we left in our wake.

Leave me stranded with only your lips to keep me fed.

Leave me stranded out at sea to drown in your love.

How do you always seem to find me after such long breaks?

Lying in wait beneath the grass.

Waiting for me to wander into the fields

Then wrapping your thighs around my waist,

and whispering,

lips pressed to my ear,

“Mmm, hey boy.”

A hot August night in June

The milk white glow in my face before I fall asleep is so common to me. How many nights did we spend like this? Not enough.

Stripped down half naked. Completely naked. Your skin was so smooth. I loved making you shiver.

My hands cupped perfectly in your hips. I always squeezed until it hurt. You always whispered, “harder,” and I obliged.

The thick, humid air never bothered us when we started on each other. Our bodies sweat, but our minds were preoccupied with trying to make the other moan or yelp.

I loved it when you whimpered. You loved what came after.

The heat would set in eventually. After we fucked and tore the sheets off of the bed. It would be so hot we would sit naked in the kitchen eating ice cream in front of the open freezer door.

Often that would lead to more sex.

Now I’ll go to sleep reminiscing of these hot August nights in June, and how you’re burned in my memory. I hope you’re sleeping naked.


I was thinking about being old.

80 or 90 or so.

How living that long would be enough.

If I’m 80 do I really want to wait through ten more years to be 90?

If I died at 80 it’s not like dying at 50.

That’s old but not that old.

And then I thought…

…that’s less than 9 years away.


I could write your lips onto mine but you would break the kiss every time.

You would linger.

Hunger, even.

But it was always you who ended it.

Girl on the street

First I noticed your legs, then yours hips.

Your hair caught my eye as I stared at your beauty. Black of course. Black with a slight curl.

And then I saw your eyes.

They were sharp, as if someone edited a picture then set it to life.

Blue eyes against a black haired stare.

She was gorgeous.


I’ll probably never see her again.