metaphorliteral: (in the process)
My dearest love, please close your eyes
and while I hold you tightly in my arms
accept that I cannot control myself.
You are the only thing that can keep
me sane and quiet on these rainy nights.
Allow me to show you my gratitude.

It's rare for you to express gratitude--
the thanks you give me come more from your eyes
than from your words. When, in the night,
you come and enfold me in your arms,
that is exactly what I cannot use to keep
these words of love tucked deep within myself.

Yet, sometimes, I regret your lovely self
offered to me in twisted gratitude
and sympathy. If what I most desire to keep
is offered only when I'm most in pain, my eyes
would be forfeit, I would give what would most harm
me to lose, to keep you with me every night.

But--oh-- the endlessness and dark of nights
spent with the ghosts that haunt my former self
terrify me... with you, I am well-armed
to defend my soul. The pure gratitude
shining through my unfrightened eyes
seems to touch you. "I wish I could keep

that look on your face forever." Then just keep
us here like this, beloved, through the night
and I swear I'll stay this joyful. Although eyes
might close in weariness, my inner self
will not sleep, but cry out in gratitude.
There is no safer place than in your arms.

The morning sun beguiles with its charm,
the dark of night is the moon's lonely keep--
but you provide my light-- with gratitude
and love, I set my course by you at night
and chart my travels by your radiant self
by day, when you are still dear to my eyes.

I could not keep my gratitude inside--
my eyes told you, my arms spoke the words
that in the night, our selves echoed silently.

without you

Jun. 2nd, 2012 09:33 pm
metaphorliteral: (typewriter)
My heart is not broken, merely obscured:
a full moon behind heavy rain clouds.
It's whole and radiant and removed from me,
shining brightly over the Pacific
and casting light on the Finger Lakes
but unseen from the Atlantic and the Hudson River.

My heart still beats, but quietly:
songs of joy muted to distant humming.
The melody still rings true, but in one part,
without the alto to harmonize,
missing the baritone counterpoint,
just a reedy soprano carrying a third of the tune.

My heart is waiting patiently:
a calendar with one red-letter day.
Days go by, crossed out one by one,
made bearable by letters signed "Yours,"
and never-long-enough phone calls,
coming slowly closer to the moment we'll meet again.
metaphorliteral: (typewriter)
summer day
eating ripe cherries
and thinking about your full lower lip
metaphorliteral: (play crack the sky)
My ship has come in
after I spent so long in my lighthouse
guiding it safely to shore.
For all those nights I blinked my light
hoping you'd see and understand
a message of hope--
and then-- sails on the horizon
steadily approaching my quiet beach.
I didn't sit here waiting.
It's hard work to run a lighthouse
but it's vital--
maybe I saved your life with my beacon.

Maybe I saved my own.

Come into my harbor, where I wait on the dock--
throw me a rope, let me secure you here.
Show me what you brought from distant lands,
unload your burdens.

Stay here a while
and write your name on the white sand beach
in stones and shells that will stay
long after the day you sail away.

untitled 3

May. 14th, 2012 06:17 pm
metaphorliteral: (in the process)
You disarm me.
For you, I'll bare my throat.
For you, I'll submit.
For you, I'll show my vulnerabilities
and beg you to take advantage of them
shivering under your fingertips when you do.
For you and no one else
I will lay down in your arms
and close my eyes, and sleep.
metaphorliteral: (we bleed the ink of subtle allegory)
Lay them out carefully:
here, the Queen of Cups
covered by the Knight of Wands,
crossed by the King of Swords.

You are an emotional dreamer.

Beware a young person with a temper
and an intellectual man.

In the past, the Three of Cups,
and the future is Temperance.

Your days of happiness are behind you.
Perhaps you can try to salvage some scraps.

Above, in favor, the Lovers,
below, the Two of Swords.

Soon you will be required to make a choice--
or perhaps you can try to combine the options,
take a little bit of everything,
stack the deck in your favor.

Seek balance. Weigh your choices.
metaphorliteral: (in the process)
There's nothing pure about me.
I'm a gleeful criminal,
a shameless deviant,
proud of my abnormality.
I disrespect laws
and codes of conduct
in search of excitement
and personal truth.
Not only do I do these things,
but I like to talk others
into my favorite transgressions.
"Trust me. I do this all the time."
"You don't have to... but think about it."
"I promise you'll enjoy this."
Sometimes it doesn't take much,
a slight nudge, a few convincing words:
a new partner in crime.
Other people require more work,
a cost-benefit analysis,
testimonials of prior escapades,
precautions against repercussions.
Still, it's more fun being bad
when I'm sharing it with someone,
being a bad influence on behavior,
and anyways,
my favorite transgressions
are the ones I can't do alone.
metaphorliteral: (typewriter)
Usually logic and emotion don't work together.
You either listen to your head or your heart.
Most people aren't balanced-- one or other holds sway,
and instead of being whole they only work with part.

I let emotion guide my rationality,
measuring decisions more with heart than mind,
but I'm decent at synthesizing both sides
and that's how I contrive to usually be kind.

You're a logical thinker, almost exclusively.
Getting swept up in emotion's not an issue for you.
You look at different angles to solve a problem,
and once you start a train of thought you tend to see it through.

So when you qualified "I love you" with "logically,"
and showed me the criteria, proofs, and facts,
I could see how your brain guided your heart
though both routes resulted in the same impact.

I fell in love with you like a bolt from the blue.
You deliberated over love more painstakingly,
but now we're both wearing the same silly smile.
Emotion and logic both got us where we need to be.
metaphorliteral: (typewriter)
My body isn't traitorous enough
to be uncomfortable when yours
is resting on it.
I can (and have) been
your pillow for hours on end
without a single nerve cell
falling asleep.
How could I waste
a moment of contact
when I count every embrace
as dear as I do?
No, I stay aware,
pacing my breath to yours,
trying to memorize this feeling
of sweet contentment.
metaphorliteral: (play crack the sky)
Circling like the hawks above the wood
Taking a long view on our little gyres
The places our spirals kiss and spin apart
The ambit of my life brushing yours
Wingtips caressing as we pass each other by
Let me catch your updraft and follow you higher
Sync up our circles, chase you upwards
Taste the sky in your wake
metaphorliteral: (we bleed the ink of subtle allegory)
hands entwined
let me lead you down empty corridors
peek into rooms filled with antiquities
show you the truth behind rumors
pick the locks and discover treasures
delighted by what we find
let's throw these doors open
shine our flashlights into corners
walk boldly through these hidden places
go places maybe we shouldn't go
satisfy our curiosity if we can
if you think we can
I don't think we can
but let's try anyways
together

anorgasmia

Apr. 11th, 2012 12:55 pm
metaphorliteral: (in the process)
The reason I can't come any more
might be as simple as a side-effect of drugs--
because it's listed as a common one
whenever you're messing with serotonin,
and marked on every pill I take--
but I don't think that's it
because I didn't have this problem last year,
and my medication hasn't changed since then.

It could just be boredom.
There's nothing surprising about my own body
when I've had it for twenty-six years
(thirteen of them sexually curious)
and anyways there's nothing unexpected
when I'm the one doing the touching,
but I don't think that's it either
although maybe it'd help to invest in a new toy.

I think it's deprivation. I'm starved for touch
from friendly exploratory fingers,
clever generous mouths,
the weight of a body atop mine.
I'm desperate to be manipulated
by someone kind (but maybe a little bit evil),
hungry for contact, for reciprocity.
It could be that I just need someone else's hands on me.

timepiece

Apr. 11th, 2012 12:50 pm
metaphorliteral: (typewriter)
At last, I've been deconstructed,
every part scrutinized with a jeweler's loupe,
then put back together by careful hands
painstakingly, fixing the worn-down places,
replacing the broken-toothed cogs
and the cloudy piece of quartz that kept me running.
I've been upgraded-- now my heart's a diamond
refracting rainbows in the spotlight of love.
Take me in your hands and hold me up to the sun
to see the sparkle of affection light me up.
I've been reset-- keeping perfect time
to the measured beat of your racing heart.
Wear me in your pocket, take me out at intervals
and check my unerring tally of the minutes I've been yours.
metaphorliteral: (we bleed the ink of subtle allegory)
You could be just what I need.
Play with my neurotransmitters,
toy with my hormone levels,
make my heart beat faster.

You're a dopamine rush,
100% approach motivation,
a flood of oxytocin,
a direct line to my amygdala.

You're better than antidepressants,
more pure than medical opiates,
the sweetest high I've ever tasted.

Neither of us keeps eyes open when we kiss.
Every embrace is a double-blind experiment.

You could just be a placebo,
but even sugar pills work sometimes.
metaphorliteral: (typewriter)
I can't be honest with you
looking into your eyes,
which isn't to say that I lie
because I never lie to you--
except for when you ask
"what are you laughing about?"
but the words I can't speak to you--
that's the source of my poetry.

One day, my beloved muse,
one day soon I will hand you my poems
and you will understand
why I laugh,
you will know the truth
of why I smile when I see you.

One day when your golden hair's gone grey
you will take my chapbook from the shelf
and remember the woman
who laughed out loud
and honestly loved
every terrible pun you told,
every wry twist of your lips,
every time I couldn't tell you something

and poured out poetry instead.

xenophile

Mar. 29th, 2012 10:16 pm
metaphorliteral: (typewriter)
I'm talented at seeing things from others' point of view,
but I don't know how the world looks through your eyes.
You're a foreign language, mellifluous and incomprehensible.
You're a different species, the last surviving gentleman.

You're a recipe with one unreadable ingredient-- I can't get you right.
So I ask and ask and try to interpret the look on your face,
checking eyebrows and lips against my mental lexicon,
deciphering your expression and frequently getting it wrong.

Forgive me when I say "you look tired" or "are you okay?"
Forgive me when I study your features like a map.
Forgive me when I get lost in translation--
I may be an expert at reading people but I'm a novice at you.

Talking to you is like walking on the moon--
exhilarating and terrifying, cut loose from gravity.

lullaby

Mar. 29th, 2012 10:12 pm
metaphorliteral: (play crack the sky)
close your eyes, dear one
let me quiet your mind
lay your fears to rest
talk you through the dark hours
convince you you're all right

whisper legends in your ear
catch your favorite constellation
and hang it from your ceiling

to watch over you while you sleep
metaphorliteral: (in the process)
Is this the legacy I want to leave?
A year's worth of lovesickness,
the slow progression from thwarted desire
to almost-fulfillment and back again?
What will my heirs think of my college notebooks?
Will they know the source of my inspiration?
Will they blush to read about his kind hands,
or roll their eyes, dismissing my words as hyperbole?
Will anyone take the time to pull out my yearbook,
searching through faces until they find the one?
Or will they decide it's someone it wasn't?
All the passion, the frustration, the longing,
misinterpreted, utterly misunderstood?

Does it matter if I'm misread?
My clumsy interpretations of the masters notwithstanding,
so what if no one can pin down my Maud Gonne?
I'm no Yeats, my muse starts no revolutions,
my love ignites no firebrands, just the solitary torch I carry,
my little candle guttering as summer draws near.

Still, maybe one day he'll pull out my chapbook
to show to a daughter or a son with an artistic bent,
or take it down from a shelf once he's gone grey
to remember the woman who loved him so long ago.

a new high

Mar. 29th, 2012 09:59 pm
metaphorliteral: (we bleed the ink of subtle allegory)
I cling to sobriety like a last resort
rather than a first line of defense.

Intoxication has failed me once again,
wine tying my tongue into knots instead of loosening it,
weed dragging me down rather than getting me high.

I'm swearing off the lot of it.
I'm pouring liquor down the drain by the bottle,
I'm throwing baggies onto bonfires and walking away.

Only one thing works any more.
I'm strung out after one hit, trembling for want of it,
shaky like a junkie just remembering that trip.

Just put your arms around me and let me feel your warmth.

Kiss my lips once more and send my head spinning through the stars.
metaphorliteral: (in the process)
Touch me.
I won't ask twice.
Let your hands go where your eyes wander.
Do what you like.
I'm saying yes.
Yes.
Please.
Please me.
Don't overthink it.
Let's make this happen here and now.
Want me.
I know you want me.
Don't you know how I want you?
Take me.
Make me yours.
All I want is to be yours.

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