I’m not always sure whose mouth it is
my throat is a mass grave and I’m not sorry
i want to eat a knife blade from the corner of your smile
your forearm across my windpipe, sepia fever dream, stained the color of the crook of your elbow
i stopped using straws to drink when I realized I’d keep drowning in empty paper coffee sleeves
the liquid bites my tongue, sends me tumbling through a landslide to 2018, and I reach down my waist band sweating in a too familiar parking lot
i ache against my palm
shift my mouth against a breath that’s not there
gulp down night air
wonder when the sun began to set this quick
Call it what it is: swapping spit
I love hugging. I am a serial hugger.
Between the beginning of my career and the end, I learned to ask first, but it was often while I was airborne, arms wide and ready to envelop.
I'm on my second career now and surrounded by artistic people who, generally, hug as much as me.
Covid was a nightmare for us all.
Now, however, hugs are permissible as long as both parties are willing to temp Covid fate.
But kissing? Oh my!
Before I got married, I have to say, kissing was my favorite activity. I get why you would long for kisses.
But, has your dentist ever shown you what a swipe of your saliva looks like under a microscope? Mine did 20 years ago. It's the perfect antidote to the missing kissing bug. I went weeks, maybe months, without kissing my husband. Try it! You'll feel loads better about keeping your lips to yourself.
Have you tried spooning? All the affection, none of the microbe-filled spit...
Massacred Panic At The Slack-Jawed Gobstoppuppance Convention. (adult-ish content)
Inwardly she liquefied aortal butterflies;
Guiltily, with self-disdain,
She tried to mute their cries as her innards rumbled, gizzling at life's clankumbling chain.
Tears were there now, threatening
To recognize the stain.
Perhaps a simple breath's the key?
The shackled mortal dared
A shaky inhalation
As a passing stranger stared.
Stop! Her heart implored her brain.
And passively she stewed herself into a kind of slop.
Just cry then. Breathing doesn't work as soul coagulation.
...drips and drops hung prettily, from ducts' or salivation...
"My girl," the voice accompanied a hand upon her back.
Warm and gentle,
to pick up cosmos-slack.
You're here, she told the stranger-man, through shudders and delusions.
She looked him in the eyeballs - blue - as Eros spun illusions in the air between their naked stares and time's forsaken crops.
He's here, she mesmerized herself, then kissed his startled chops.
Freed from fret she melted on the man who saved her guts.
Then, love-hungrily, she knelt and licked his nuts.
I miss what I used to feel.
I miss the person I used to be.
If only they were here,
and I wasn't so alone.
that eyes could say
what sawdust words
that i could look
and that was that
the possibility of
youth's greatest wish:
to wrench that feeling
from someone else,
to breath it off them.
to steal it from your
eyes, or your lips
to miss the
to miss what
to long for the unreachable:
and landlocked expectations
and wanton undreamt dreams
i miss what
i can't have
i miss what
i never wanted
I am bored of my taste
I see people in a small cafe next to my tiny apartment.
An elderly couple with matching gray for their hair, greet each other with a peck on lips. I wonder what they tasted then? He must have tasted the faint bitterness of the coffee she was sipping earlier, and she dry staleness because he drank a whole glass of water as he sat.
A very busy barista with pouty lips, and golden hair. Few of those golden strands stuck to her neck because of the sweat she was oozing out. She must taste like lipsticks, and fresh salt. Her eyes catch the glimpse of a tall figure.
A tall man with a neat gray stubble, in a gray polo and green khakis has an aura around him. Everybody in that small cafe could smell his presence, I am sure he tastes like sandalwood and sophistication.
A poet in me is bored of my own taste. I wonder how I taste like, to other people. Do people miss kissing me, as I miss kissing people?
The hardest thing
that I’ve ever had to do
is be in love
- Since 17 // I miss your kiss.
#short #shortpoem #quote #inlove #love #lovestory #sad #sadlove #heartbreak #breakup #iloveyou #imissyou #younglove
Lips covered in cloth longed to reach out
To comfort one another in a time when comfort was needed most.
Breaths pleaded to embrace on the edge of our tongues
but ultimately died there.
i miss kissing people
i used to know what confidence felt like
in the brash nature of blowing strangers a kiss goodbye
of taking the hand of a friend in elaborate courtesy to extend a press of my lips upon their skin
i used to know what comfort felt like
of forehead kisses to say goodbye
and the touch of lips to the cheek in hello
i used to know what it was like
i miss knowing what it was like
I'm blowing kisses to the wind
and it doesn't seem to mind.
The wind has no fear of germs
or social distancing. It comes
and goes like a steady friend.
I'm kissing the mirror as a
reminder I'll be okay in a world
of uncertainty and disappointment.
My lipstick affection screams we all
need a little affirmation.
I'm kissing my plants so they will
grow green, leafy, and healthy in
rooms filled with worries and thoughts.
Thrive, thrive, thrive even when the odds
scream for defeat.
I'm very likely to blow a kiss from the
window of my car, across the hallway,
or walking down the street. After all,
what this world really needs is a lot
more love and continual kisses.