Worse than missing you

There are plenty of bad things in the world.  Horrible things that dwarf any kind of silly, minuscule problem that most people deal with on a daily basis, but sometimes that doesn’t matter.  Sometimes there is only the problem in front of you and the feelings inside of you that you’re experiencing.  So, right now, deep inside of me, the worst thing in the world I can think of is living the rest of my life and never knowing what it feels like to kiss your lips.

Oh Virginia

Do you know that song?  All of the men singing the same words.  Over and over again they say, “She loves me, yeah yeah yeah.  She loves me, yeah yeah yeah.”
Where do I find that sort of thing and how do I remember it in all the wrong ways?

To illuminate the soft crease of your lips.
To plunge into your nectar.
To fill the void.

The shadows are on the hazy edge and don’t need to be crept into nor revealed.  Let me remember you wrong in all the right ways.  She loves me, yeah yeah yeah.

They say all you need is love, but is that really true?
Maybe all you need is a tryst and a poor memory.



Your honey is stuck coating my lips.  Those bee sting lips that I pray to at night while I’m asleep.  My dreams are filled with the buzz of bumblebees.

Dreams are often strange like that.  Converting thoughts into picture form but distorted through reality.  You’ve stung me so many times how else could this go?

That honey is thick though.  I’ve sucked my bottom lip into my mouth and pulled with my tongue so many times but you’re still there.  Your brush painted across my hungry mouth.  I invited you in.  You’re so naturally sweet that it can never be too much.

So I’m stuck here with my mouth barely able to open, as if it was kept shut by a sticky candied sugar kiss that lingers until I die off to sleep.

I saw your ghost again

I can’t remember what attraction looked like before your eyes.

I’m haunted by you.

Your lips. Your stare. Your everything.

I can only see you. I think this may be how I serve my sentence. In love with someone who is in everyone, but never her.

Little Reminders

The rain.  Whenever it rains and I’m caught in the downpour so much that my hair is drenched and my clothes are soaked through.  And when I finally reach cover and pant from sprinting I can feel the drops of rain run along my forearm, the way your fingers used to before you clasped them in mine and then kissed me.

The night.  It swallowed us like the whale and we sat inside it’s belly on our raft.  Your limbs dangled over toying with the water.  I sat and stared at you as you stared back at me.  The emptiness, when it was only us that were alive and our words were the only ones that were spoken.

Books.  To associate a girl with a book is high praise.  To associate her with all of them is worship.  I can feel you when I’m holding one in my hand.  The way your finger ran down it’s crease made me wish I had pages.  I wanted you to hold me as tightly as you gripped your books.

A mirror.  Your bathroom mirror and your reflection.  Steam splattered across it, covering the parts I desperately wanted and leaving a hazed view of the rest.  Your eyes looking at me through the mirror as I replied with mine.  Your hips pressed into the vanity.  Mine into you.  Our reflection of anticipation.

A desk.  The shape of the L and how we would bend the wrong way along it.  Off of it.  On it.  Across it.  Against it.  Under it.  It knew more about us than any other piece of furniture we owned.  It knew our secrets and only told them when shifting awkwardly towards the wall.

Writing words.  They were all for you.  Every word I wrote was because of the look on your face when you read them.  The tears in your eyes.  The lust on your lips.  The weight of your kiss.  The smile that was spread.  I would write for an eternity if it meant I could keep your eyes on me for every moment.  To be able to look up and see you would keep me focused for all lifetimes.

You are everywhere, and you always will be.

Our ebb and flow

In one of my future failed relationships I hope to remember to count how many times we’ve kissed.  Whoever it is, whenever it is and for however long it lasts I want to keep track of the number of times our lips touched and to the varying degrees.

  • How often their tongue slid along mine.
  • How many pecks on the cheek turned into pecks on the lips.
  • The different ways their tongue pressed into mine.
  • The number of times they pushed back,
  • and the number of times they gave in.

I think it would be a nice thing to look back on and reminisce.  Kisses mean so much in the moment but there aren’t a lot that are remembered, yet when they’re gone and you can’t get them back you miss them sorely.

Of course I’m talking about you again.  When am I not?
You’re my never ending anthology.  You make the words flow like a river out to the sea.

I’ve written about the times we kissed and the times our lips were busy doing other, less respectable actions.  Now I’m writing about how I miss them and how I miss you.  But above all else are your lips.  I miss the way you kissed me back when I give my life against your mouth.

I hope you’re well.  I hope someone is kissing those lips until it hurts the way you liked it.


I only caught you at a glance

while driving to my slow death,

so I tilted my neck

to get as long a view as I could.

You were beautiful and I’ll never see you again.

You had a youthful face and shadowy hair

with a snap of sun on your skin.

Eyelashes, I love a girl with full eyelashes,

I could swing from your eyelashes

down to your pink, ruffled lips.

As we moved in opposite directions

(3 seconds never seemed so short a time as in that moment.)

I groaned at fate and its constant tease

of showing me something beautiful

as she’s on her way to leave.

Sweet lips are overrated

Kisses aren’t sweet.  They’re described as if they’re a sugary dessert.  Something with a whipped topping.  A treat after a long day or the delicious cap to a full meal, but they aren’t anything like that.

A kiss, if you had to describe it with a food analogy, is more of a steak.  Medium rare.  The right amount of pink and the right amount of something else.  It’s dripping and sizzling at the same time.  It makes your mouth water in anticipation and when you finally delve in you don’t want to stop until there’s nothing left.

You’re like that.  You aren’t sweet.  When they made you they purposely left out the sugar and threw in some extra spice.  It shows up in your smirk, in your hips and in the back of your eyes when they glint against the light.

You sear my skin when you lay your body against me.  You leave marks and they burn deep.  A cake is just bread with sweetener.  You’re much more appetizing than that.  I think about you all day and when it’s time to feast you can’t stop me.  You make me hungry.  I want to leave the impressions of my teeth on your shoulder.  I want to hear the sounds the deepest part of your throat can muster.

Kisses aren’t sweet, at least yours aren’t.  Your kisses are a tidal wave and I want to get swept away.

Me, Flirting

Something Blue:  “Okay, let’s nap and forget the world.”

Me:  “Nap?  Sure.  I’m going to insist actually.  Legs tangled, right?”

Something Blue:  “Can I have kisses?”

Me:  “I thought you’d never ask.”

Rushes my lips against hers, arms around her back, pinching tight around her rib cage. Smashing a kiss into her the way angry waters erode boulders along the beach. Lifting her. Carrying her until momentum is stopped in a thudding halt against a wall, table, desk, chair and falling into or onto it with a hunger such as what was deprived during lent.

“I mean…,” kisses you because I missed your lips.
“You can have either. Or both. Take your pick, or take everything.”