Love is Not a Bumble Bee Trapped in a Wild Flower

Quite some time ago
I woke up
My own drool-drenched hand
Tucked under my face
I still smelled
Like the previous night’s sex
You remained on my fingertips
While I contemplated
If I ever truly wanted to hold you
In the palm of my hand
The notion seemed too restricting
And grasping onto you
Not an act of love
I’m sorry if I ever
Made it feel that way

Typical pessimist talking about the world ending-

Lazy bumble bees and weeping willows
The sun rests upon the day’s hope for renovation
Dusk invades our cores
The same way history repeats itself
Blessed by an ancient moon
Shouting wisdom into empty faces
Is anyone truly listening?
If not today, when?
There’s little time left
For redemption

3 word poem

I love you.
_____________________________________________________________________

I wanted to write a 3 word poem.
Maybe I should have written,
“I am sorry.”

Maybe I should use more words.
Like 6 words.
“Tell me how to fix it.”

Maybe I should beg,
4 words
“Please communicate with me.”

7 words
“I’m scrambled,
Tell me what to do.”

14
“Last night,
I had to tell myself,
Deal with it,
She’s not coming back.”

4 words
“You’re not coming back.”

1 word
“Ouch.”

3 words
“I love you. “

Wednesday, ‎July ‎25, ‎2018, ‏‎5:17PM

It was anywhere between 10:30pm and 2:17am on a Friday. Maybe it was a Saturday. I never kept track of days with you, only moments. I suppose, I felt something for you, then.

We were having some deep conversation in my bed. If you consider a futon a bed. Which you do, because you’ve been there. You were trying to express your viewpoint on such and such topic. It was like 3 days ago, but I no longer remember the conversation. Never did. Only the way you looked in that moment.

You paused, touched your thumb and forefinger to your forehead, and then extended your arm, aimlessly. As if cupping some invisible air in the palm of your hand helped you organize your thoughts. You brought the air down to your stomach, spread it out there, subtle waves crashing against your skin canvass. I watched them evaporate.

My mouth, a paintbrush with bristles made from flesh. My colors of choice were probably orange and purple that day. Maybe green and blue. Your canvass belly, blank and soft. I wanted to plaster you from head to toe with paintbrush kisses.

You just looked so fucking cute, but I was waiting for your thoughts. And then you smiled. Jesus fucking Christmas, did you smile. I no longer remember the conversation. I only heard your smile. I was waiting for your thoughts, but I promise I wasn’t listening. I don’t feel bad about it, but I feel it was important. We should talk again soon.