Posts Tagged ‘touch’

Under the stars-

show me the constellations you know.

Why don’t we make some up, too?

Wrapped in sweatshirts, blankets.

A foot is quite a bit of distance.

Should I move closer?

I want to.

Would you mind if

I touched your hand?

Leaned against you?

Kissed you?

Nothing but us, the ground,

the food in a basket, and

all the other amenities I brought.

And the stars

shining.

And so I have to put aside

what fantasies I had.

And so I must try to silence the voice

in me that says “I’m yours.”

And so I must try to look at you

without blushing.

I must try to fight the urge to hold your hand,

to fawn over your smile,

to talk to you

simply because I like the way you talk.

I feel sad,

though I shouldn’t.

I haven’t lost anything,

not really.

I’ve gained a friend.

That’s something.

So,

I’m alright.

No less an organ

than the cardiac muscle

and sinew

of a regular human heart.

This heart dreamt.

It dreamt of love

in two hands, clasped;

in four eyes, twinkling;

in lips and words, whispered

and shouted,

and gestures and laughter

and memories

that have yet to be made.

Some of these dreams

turned into wishes,

and the wishes became so strong

they turned into prayers-

much like a chick

turns into a fledgling,

than spreads its wings

and flies.

The heart was shattered

by promises

that held as much weight

as stardust,

sweet words

that disguised the taste of cyanide,

and its own dreams

which it believed too much in

and had its natural rhythm disrupted by.

The shattered fragments

of the glass heart

belong to me.

They dig into my ribs

and say don’t believe

too strong

in dreams.

By end of day we’ll be apart.

Our fingers and lips will slip away,

but you will linger in my heart,

and we shall meet again, another day.

Last night I imagined you.

I imagined us entwined.

I imagined us

being happy, taking turns making each other breakfast,

gold rings gleaming on our fingers

as happily as awards do.

I imagined you smiling at me,

your two eyes twinkling like silver coins,

I imagined us living simply

and maintaining happiness.

If you knew this is what I wished for,

would you take my hand?

The World has shut its Eye

to me. I linger

outside the closed Lid- in Darkness, wond’ring why

I am in this Silence. I am Forgotten. Not having lifted a Finger.

written in the style of Emily Dickinson

In their rooms they loved each other.

He kept a photograph of her,

she would write about him in her diary.

He would write songs about her.

She would write love letters to him.

In the darkness, he thought about her,

and she of him.

They imagined each others bodies, each others faces.

When they answered each other through meeting

they would smile, faces glowing red, as if from cold.

They would touch, shoulders rubbed gently,

hands clasping– the lock and the key.

They whispered promises to each other,

spoke of dreams in hushed tones filled with wonder.

They kissed, and felt each others’ warmth.

They woke to gray morning,

clouds filling the sky, turning it silver.

At their parting, each sighed.

When he turned one way, and she the other,

all the things they whispered

buzzed like static

in their minds.

Tenderness lives in hands.

In the soft, light, and feathery touch

of skin on skin- Tenderness is passed.

In loving caresses Tenderness relinquishes warmth,

then rushes to hearts and quickens their pace.

Tenderness takes its time

knowing when tears will form,

when happiness abides in the smallest of smiles,

and gratefulness shows in the slow closing of eyes.

Tenderness takes root

at the clasp of palms, and fingers entwining.

It grows in the hearty laughs, genuine smiles,

and red blood visibly rising in cheeks.

Tenderness blooms

where two bodies meet with the slightest of touches,

and grows through years of unity,

where smiles, laughs, and touches never cease.

 

We could look objectively at everything,

but then the heart would remain unseen.

The fire would be doused;

the flower would droop its full and unfurled head,

there would be no crystals within the bloom,

no smiles on the petals,

no dreams in the scent.

There would be no call of the ocean,

no challenge or caress in its waves,

no luster in the sand;

there would not be temptation from the dark forest;

there would be no warnings from the wind,

or grasp to it;

there would not be hope released with the rising

of the sun, nor fertile beauty in the glow of the moon;

there would be no celebration with death.