My pencil shakes, my eyes are wide as I sit awake,
At a dark desk through the night with nothing but a table-top light,
I think – here I am again.
This rendezvous of constant rhymes and thoughts,
I’m left paralyzed in what they ought to call the midnight chill,
Your words still dripping down my spine and I’m thrilled at this feeling I’ve got,
I don’t know what else to do, why not write you a poem?
I’ve written hundreds of these before,
Same mess of similes and metaphors,
Talking about the ways your eyes look tonight,
Or the sound of your voice running through my mind,
And how your touch leaves me breathless,
And how nothing compares to what this is,
You see- I’m tired of comparing you to the ocean,
Or calling you my sky,
I’m tired of wondering what’s next between us,
And wondering just why,
You picked me.
My poems are pleads of consciousness,
This feeling is the pause between the sadness,
Your taste is my favorite desert,
And I have yet to figure out why I’m still hurting,
But all I can be sure of is that it aches less when I’m with you,
And aches even more when you walk out the door,
When you’re on the ride home, I’m jealous of the cars gazing at your tail lights,
Because they’re seeing you more than I am right now.
My insecurities are like freckles,
The more there are, the more they cover me like a drapery of stars at night,
You look at my skin and all you see are shooting stars.
I want to feel the way I feel when I’m kissing you all the time,
Like explosions behind my eyes with cotton candy pop rocks on my tongue,
I want my heart to beat so fast that it sounds like a purring engine,
And I want my fingertips to tingle with the anticipation of a drop in a song.
Like when you figure out it’s really sunday when you thought it was monday,
Like the sound of a fresh gospel in the morning,
Like the taste of strawberry glazed waffles with whipped cream on a weekday,
Like an A- on a test you guessed most of the answers on,
Like a summer rainstorm thunder and Princess Diana’s revenge dress-
This feeling doesn’t even compare to the type of fire I’ve got brewing behind my chastity heart,
But you bet your ass I’ve been itching to throw some coal in that fire.
Match my desire with my tired enthusiasm and you’ve got a masterpiece,
A medley of you’s and I’s and we’s,
Well the reality is that you don’t compare to anything I’ve got in my brain,
This is something more than real, extraterrestrial- possibly insane.
But in the meantime, that’s okay,
Because I’m gonna keep writing you shitty poems,
As long as you decide to stay