I told you
you didn’t like me.
You said nothing.
You just laid
kisses on my lips
your body too mine
your head into the nape of my neck.
I needed the words, too.
I am not a poet,
my mother scolds me.
But she’s never read about
the light blue of your iris,
the creamy haze the sleep spreads over them,
your soft malleable skin
and the marks my eager fingers leave on it,
your shiny white teeth
and the marks they leave on my neck.
I am not in love,
my mother warns me.
But she’s never felt
the soft steady gaze of your eyes
always willing to meet mine,
the eagerness of your lips
as they force themselves against my skin,
the vibrations of your throat
as you moan into my open mouth.
A priest tole me,
“What does it mean
that you’re a Christian?”
“I have seen
He was thinking of Jesus,
lost in his own faith.
I was thinking of
the taste of sugar on my tongue,
the sway and sweat of sweet music,
and the indelible image
of your eyes,
searching for me across the room.
Do you think
the stars look down on us,
At our cells’ distinct purposes and rhythmic function?
At the lights string from our hearts?
At the explosions when our lips touch?
Do you think
we make them
A neutron star
is 1.4 masses of the sun.
We are, combined,
7.6 x 10-29 masses of the sun
and more than neutrons —
we are electrons, protons, too.
circling around each other,
we are more like
10 to 25 solar masses:
a black hole,
a gravitational collapse.
I want to kiss you,
until your lips
and pour out secrets.
I want to tear at you
until your skin
and bleeds out those poison words.
“I love you.”
“I love you.”
draw ridges on my skin,
carve valleys from mountains.
Either kiss me
or stop looking at me like you’re about to.
a poem about your unmade bed,
a poem about your childish grin,
a verse about the way your hair combs forward,
a scheme about the laundry on your floor,
paragraphs about your messy stack of textbooks,
an essay about your victory dance,
a novel about your unbridled love of the universe,
epics about the smell of cigarettes and cologne on your sweatshirt
and i still haven’t scratched the surface of you
In the (short, sad) story of you and me,
I made twenty-one mistakes.
The first: I was drunk, and you were not
when I told you (I like you).
The second: You brought me candy
and I didn’t know what to do
(It was the sweetest thing)
so I played it cool, even though
I wanted to kiss you a dozen thank-yous.
Third through tenth: I liked you.
I liked, I liked you, I liked you,
I didn’t, I did, I didn’t, I did
(but I also liked someone else).
The eleventh: I got comfortable
looking at you on your balcony
every time I walked home.
Twelfth, I never told you,
but it was a big deal every time we kissed.
(It still is.)
Thirteenth, I never told you.
Fourteen, fifteen, sixteen, seventeen: I never told you
how crazy I am
(about the way your eyes catch mine)
(about the way you kiss my neck)
(and, in general).
Eighteenth: I let myself dream about you all summer,
and Nineteen: I thought you might be thinking of me, too.
The twentieth: When you didn’t like me anymore,
it made me want you more.
The last: I never told you.
(I loved you and I never told you.)
trillions of electrons,
billions of atoms,
millions of cells,
thousands of acids,
dozens of organs,
I am everything.
I am made of stars and history.
I am hundreds of years of strength.
I am tornadoes and hurricanes and fire,
and all I think of is you.
(It doesn’t matter how my poems start,
In the end, they are all about you.)
and you are the realest thing I’ve touched in years.
someone so true
love a thing
You are the last thing
I thought I’d want
and the first thing I ache for in the morning.
I didn’t realize how much I’d loved you
until six months after I had last touched you.