I'M WRITING LOVE POEMS AGAIN AND I'M BLAMING IT ON YOUR HANDS

Fri, 04/15/2016 - 03:59 -- smd081

Our fingers grip

halfway intertwined

and lip to lip

we hang between birds and moonshine 

it's 3 am and we’re making out

on a park bench. 

it's 3 am, we're making out on a park bench 

and it's funny because it's dumb but it feels right

I’m smiling and laughing and people are passing us 

probably whispering about young love or dumb love 

or whatever

I don’t care.

I was calling you soft 

and thinking you're gentle, 

you were carving your hands into my sides 

and I was thinking maybe i need this,

waist deep when the moon is higher than usual, 

maybe I need you, 

with your veins like tree branches like your whole body is in constant bloom 

maybe I need you with your heart beat like the hum drum of half a dozen highways all at once

maybe I need that.

 

So,

let's lay on our backs and watch constellations

dance 

across the sky in purple and blue strands of light

let's stumble onto sunsets we'll remember decades later 

and messy kisses between breaths and hidden nervousness because 

there is something to be said for the weight of your hand on mine.

You held me like rosary beads 

and I prayed to your heart to stay.

 

I’ve seen a lot of leaving these days

a lot of U turns on free ways

a lot of broken down everythings 

a lot of skin deep crying at the back of the closet 

with the lights off. 

There is no easy way to say it still hurts sometimes,

when the moon is high, or oranges ripe, 

there is a season for everything 

including loss.

But I guess this is our time

so I'll play puppeteer on your heartstrings 

and make you blush in public. 

You’ll believe in cheek kisses and fountain wishing 

like your mother believes in God 

but you’ll show me what it feels like to fall

and 

we’ll measure each other in thumb prints and honey 

I wear clumsy like a ballgown,

messy like a masochist 

and you, like honey.

 

I do not know where to hold my hands 

on days when my heart breaks fast like railways 

I trade clean skin for crimson sin and 3 months sane

you kiss my wrists and whisper back to me

it’s okay, it's okay, it's okay,

I believe in you like your mother believes in God

I never thought there was anything wrong with a religion that revolves around something you could actually lay your hands on 

so I made a playlist with 27 songs that reminded me of your eyes and they all say something brilliant about the sun 

I don’t want to play Russian Roulette with your care,

it never felt like a handgun sorta love to me, 

I wanna play ukulele for you and rhyme 

your green eyes to sunshine and red wine and whatever other cliche I find 

because it's about goddamn time I remind you that your kisses burn like bullet holes when you aren’t around and 

my wholly lonely hands reach for your holy wholesome heart and that’s just a romanticized way to say I think you’re pretty great.

 

I wanna dance

with your hands on my back in the middle of an intersection

I wanna make little kids cover their eyes when they pass by because I kiss you sloppy wet on your cheek

I wanna hold a stethoscope to your chest and marry my quickened breath to your heartbeat

because songs about love finally seem to make sense

I wanna find constellations hidden on your skin 

I wanna make constellations with closed eyes and my lips on your skin

I wanna write songs for you and sing them badly 

I wanna make out with you at 3 am on a park bench. 

and jesus i guess i just can’t love you any less

 

This poem is about: 
Me

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