Coffee

I want you fire-eyed, helpless,
and passion-driven.
I want you irrational and guilt-stricken.
I want you spiteful,
conflicted,
loving,
I want you going, coming, and running.
I want you heaving, shoving, screaming, sighing,
pulling, pushing, laughing, lying.
I want you holding my face in the palms of
your hands and crying

    I don’t want to want you,

    but I really do.

I want that fire in your eyes to
turn a dull shade of blue
every time you get your saddened hands to
wave good-bye.
I want you finding that weak spot
on my shoulder without having to try
and giggling like a child
on a sugar high,
I want to kiss away your shy side
until darkness
is no longer necessary
for you and I
to lock eyes.
My blinding light,
I want you toes curling
and tongue-tied,
I want you realizing
I’ve set your vocal chords
free,
as you bite into the sheets
to muffle your screams,
I want you doing those things
you said you wished you could do to me,
I want you shaky-kneed
breathing
please stay
    don’t leave
right into my mouth,
where only I can taste you
and hear you.
I want to guide you, and steer you
into the gates of hell where the
flames themselves will blister
from the burning fire that is
the two of us,
I want you to call us “us”
and savor the sweetness of the word
before you smack your own lips
at your carelessness.
My heaven-sent,
I want to tell you how I think
your hypnotizing hips
are actually made of God’s
favorite symphony, and when it’s played,
how I’m certain that the whole universe
fucking bows and breaks at your
divinity,
I want you to break me
the way you do every time you feel like
solving me,
the way you piece back a goddamn puzzle.

I don’t know how you put me back together.
I’m the girl who confessed her cynicism
at “forever”,
I’m the girl who promised never to pen any love-letters,
and this again is not a letter,
this is a confession of sleep-deprived hands that
didn’t know any better,
these are the silent whisperings of fingers whose tips
have grown addicted to the feel of the insides of your lips.
My lover,
I tasted melancholy on your shoulder
that night I held you against my chest
and begged the sky
to either grant me another kiss
before I lose myself to this restlessness
or just shake the heaviness in my breath
that comes with the very mention of your glorious name.
My never again,
you asked me not to leave any traces
of this sweet sin on your honey-dipped skin,
so instead I bit my tongue and poured my blues
into your morning coffee
and never told you why that last breakfast
had your chest so heavy and full of aching.

I hope that secret hickey I left on the walls
of your heart
stays put.

Parting

In my book of failed endeavors,
you are the folded up corner
of the page I keep revisiting.
And your paper speaks out
in the way most papers speak out
(except yours is maybe whispering)
and it taunts me every time
I find myself parting
the pages to find you,
and you say those three words
that set my skin ablaze

“you are perfection

and the words tickle my fingers the way your tongue tickled my
ears that first night I wrote you in and
I must admit
you not only breathed life
into me; you resuscitated a
a word that seemed to escape me
lifetimes ago.

And I will swear on your deity of choice
that I still feel a hundred pretty yous sitting on my chest.