Love poem: Drawing in a coffee shop

Love poem: Drawing in a coffee shop

This is a love poem, and I wish it wasn’t.

I just want
To cascade over you like smooth waterfalls
Barely a blink
Come up for air
In the clandestine, vogue-painted closet tone-deaf chambers
Where satin and silk are interchangeable,
Even though the mechanisms stretch far past
What the modern seamstress can manage
Irreversible damage
To my hippocampus, and I think it’s making the horizon easier to navigate
Isn’t that a lovely thought?

Jolly ranchers for two, I’ll split one with you
I’ll split you in two
The grave filth that the manager keeps echoing in his 9-story apartment building
The couple on the seventh floor doesn’t know their floor has a leak
And I feel like I haven’t been asleep for weeks
For a prime suspect, I make a good candidate

And I make my bed
Before sunrise, or in the afternoon
I knew it was too soon to move in
And a panic started beckoning within
But if steel fences were like a goldfish that looks at you with a sideway’s glance when you’re paying attention to both his soft edges and the horror of your depleted reflection upon the opaque glass water chamber
I’d be able to dissolve my fears ambiguously
And not hold a ceremony
Because I don’t like being on stage

Nor holding a payphone
Nor sitting in an airplane aisle seat because I think that’s too far away that I am from blue
I don’t regret letting myself want you
For now, the trail has narrowed, and I’m even more sure of the concepts that my timid nature thought I knew from before

But hadn’t yet fully absorbed
Even though my nerves
Stood still with dawn’s headlights shining their vinyl arterial lining luminescence forward
Softly but forever remarkable
Diverging a separate path for a quiet evening amongst the vivid skyscrapers,
That spill vacantly flowing and simultaneously churning blood all over the paved city streets and their locked corridors
A lost art, I’m sure

I try not to step too close
I love my lavender bedrooms wall the most
I might as well write a poem about how they surround me, like silk cotton webs that disappear when touched

A new collection of elegant charcoal grey fine-point pens
With ink that covers the palm of my hand
A grocery shopping list
Paid my bills on the fifth
And ever since we split
I’ve been wondering if nostalgia feels different to different people
Or if there’s a place where one can collectively mourn
To feel part of a generational gap that
Splits into definitives
Like a blueberry raspberry sorbet cut into two separate wholes,
Both of which are for me

I turn the pages; I adjust my glasses
I picture my cat telling me she didn’t like you
And I almost laugh at myself, but then I think that would be strange
I didn’t like the way you tried to pull her off the bed
But it said so much
I was probably too hungover to think very much of it at the time, that very second in your transparent presence that awakens me now
But now, with my caramel espresso and my obsolete, filed manuscripts
I venerate how smooth of a current I created

Like the gentlest riverbed
That you could fall off your yacht into
And it would absorb you without agony
Without desperation or offbeat candor
A modern-day orchestration of a segment of contribution
You – to the waves
The waves to the mariner’s life
The ships to the tide pools,
The time I couldn’t find, the time to divide

If something bigger than you consumes you,
Without delineating a debt,
Without drawing a line

How close is too close before it becomes just fine
How fast do we absorb each other’s embers before we collapse in time

I still think of how I looked at you while you were drawing in the coffee shop

Thank you for supporting my dedicated work. It means the world to me, truly.

Free verse poem: Belongings

Free verse poem: Belongings

This is a free verse poem about attachment and detachment – defeat on behalf of simplicity’s sake.

I didn’t expect myself to still feel like this
And my mother laughs because it’s only been a few days
But I feel like it’s dragging on
It’s dragging on
And we didn’t even come to the conclusion of what would become our song
So what am I here to do
Sitting in the corner of the modern, moss-green, vibrantly street-lit café,
A damsel in despondency,
A variation of your favourite four-course strings
A broken-down parlor path with a shiny diamond entryway and glass slippers lining the blizzard-sinking ships,
That match my cruelty
My taste for rabid tongue
The whispers I wouldn’t let you utter
And the hesitation you’d be lucky to never have suffered

Portrait of Princess Tatyana Yusupova (1850) by Franz Xaver Winterhalter, oil on canvas

A chance for melancholia to clash with the force of nature
To detract from a foreign film
A lost, aching still
An avalanche of surprise
Beguiled by sheer imagination and phosphorescent icing

That smothers a kingdom like the holiest ghost
Always bittersweet to the liking
Made for sharp, pristine vengeance

Sans Titre (Untitled) 115 by Eliane L. Guerin, oil on canvas

In my own reserved portrait of solitude
Gazing vibrantly at the majestic cars that drive by
The classics, the tragic
The ancient and recumbent
Reoccurring in stunning ways I could not even think to properly illuminate in due time
Wishing you were next to me
The way you do
The way you do
So magnificent
Eyes glimmering in concave and crimson, blue
God, I was this close to being obsessed with you

I feel like
A teenager
An angry one
A bitter fool
Mad at myself because I brushed away the
The fleeting thoughts of nah, he won’t like me if I say that
Nah, he won’t like me if I wear that

The Bath (1874) by Alfred Emile Leopold Stevens, oil on canvas

I’m moving in circles because I forgot how to dance
I forgot how to feel alive
I trip over my own words
Everything is in disarray
I thought you were going
I thought you were going
I thought you were going to make it work
I thought you were
I thought you were
I thought you were going to make it work with me
I thought you were
I so thought you would have
Made it work with me
And that would be
Spontaneously planned
Crimson and clover all over
Soft rubber bands

Now you’ve got me in a pit and you
Hung up on me
I threw my cellular device on the street
I don’t want to talk to anybody
Anybody at all
Anybody at all
Anybody at all
Anybody at all

I’m not writing another poem about a boy that doesn’t have the strength to come
Tell me it’s not working
Stand there in your clandestine flesh
Stand there, giving me a real piece of yourself
Look at me with dandelions in my hair

Mending the Gown (early 20th century) by Adolphe Borie (1877-1934), oil on canvas, figurative artwork

Don’t say I’m too charming for you
Tell me I’m too alarming for you
Tell me I scare the living daylights out of you

And you’ve got other girls calling you
Answer the phone in front of me
Take the flowers out of my hair
Push me down on the tar-stained sidewalk
Bully me like you do on your bad days
Get your way

That’s how I want you to leave me

Not like
Not like
Not like
Not like
Not like
Not like
Not like
Not like

This image has an empty alt attribute; its file name is Open-Air-Interior-barcelona-1892-Ramon-Casas-i-Carbo.jpg
Open Air Interior Barcelona (1892) by Ramon Casos i Carbo, oil on canvas

Worn desperation
Mixing in fevers of separation

But I thought I

Thank you for reading, & be sure to visit to buy me a coffee for my birthday on September 14, 2022.

Thank you for your support – currently working on the cocktail party poetry collection.


Love poem: Don’t leave (me be)

Love poem: Don’t leave (me be)

I’m unstable
And I can’t tell you I’m unstable
Because I know you’ll leave
I know you’ll leave

I Think I’m Ready Now (The Mirror; the Pink Dress) (1883) by William Merritt Chase, oil on canvas

I look at my telephone; I put it down
I’m running around
I try to picture us together, in the rose gardens and wildflowers
But I’m holding on to a secret that’s like a back brace you don’t see me carrying
I act in idiosyncratic ways
And when I lose sight of your gaze,
I go in transient circles, wondering if I’ve lost you entirely
Come, lie in bed with me
Breathe beside me
Breathe out your exasperated fumes, and I’ll intake your carbon dioxide
All I can get
To move on to the next page
To avoid being stagnant
But it’s out of habit
That I crawl under the covers and I shut my eyes
Praying, only praying, that sleep will come bless me
Like it does, you, when you’re tired of fighting

The chaos that is driving me to combust
To erupt in fragrant comatose remedies only made for
Heavenly maidens under God’s brightly lit eyes
I’m not that type of person
I’m the one that lives with the curse in
-side me like a poison
That’s stumbling and rocking and weaving in between the Heavens to serve me a splendor I
Never deserved

A New York Blizzard (1890), By Frederick Childe Hassam

But I would
I should
Get up in time
Take the frostbite right off me
And take off my hospital gown
Surrendering to the amplified surround sound
The blankets we put over your walls to keep the vocal tone pitch in the points that mesmerize us the most
Haunt us until we’re comatose
In bed with the flu
Poor, sick thing
She’ll be fine by the morning

She’ll be fine
She’ll be fine
She’ll be fine
In time

I awaken in a wretched state; I’m ghastly and ill and,
I hesitate
To reach out
I know how these things go
I know I’m alone
I know my despondency is tragic, in a way that shakes you
Like you don’t want to be shaken
Nobody wants that in place of a lullaby
And I can be that-
That soothing, transient, hypnotic daze
But I’m succumbing to old premonitions
I’m losing the battle
And I can’t let you see my struggle

Lady Constance Leveson-Gower, later Duchess of Westminister (1850) by Franz Xaver Winterhalter (Museum: Royal Collection)

It’s not pretty
It’s not on purpose
But it’s oh so purposeful
I have to move on to move on to the next page
The next page where we’ve arrived at Saturn and your eyes have a glaze like a beautiful vegan donut in a ceramic box
A chamber where I don’t make a noise
Not because I don’t know how to
Because I know not to
I just know not to

I’m losing this battle
Nobody’s on the line
And I know, I know, that in time I’ll be fine
But how I wish
Can only wish
That you were here to tell me

The twenty-seven different beautiful things you see in me
And how that projection spontaneously came to be
That’s what truly most interests me

Interior of a Baroque Church (circa 1660) by Emanuel de Witte, oil on canvas

But I won’t ask
Shove the covers and refuse to speak to my mother
I go through everything alone; it’s the way this life paves
One day I’ll be at the Heavenly gates asking for forgiveness

And I don’t think that’ll be quite in store
Or offered
To someone like me

Will you still love me?

I’m too scared to look