Best friend.:)
And I must be a carrier
My immune system is broken down
Like that of an infant
And not
Like that of an infant all at the same time
Because I’m aware of the disease:
I feel it eating away at me,
Particle by particle of the fortress guarding my heart
And I feel its trickery, its façade
Its blush on my cheek and chill down my neck and the quickening of the beat of my heart
When you barely even look at me.
And I have the disease,
it was a transfer
A transmit
Through the dangerously satisfying intercourse of our minds
The fire
The fervent
Of our five second phrase fantasies turned into fractured fortification.
And no pills, no syrups
No sublingual or bilinguals or supplements, vitamins
Could revitalize me the way you do
Revving the engine on my heart
With greater energy than a whole handful of B12’s.
But, no pills, no syrups
Nyquil, Dayquil
Could hold a candle to the foggy daze you put me in
Romantic hues of rose water red
And the tingling sensation of a hundred needles, pine needles, beneath my ballerina feet.
And I’m sick with love.
Saturated.
Infatuated.
Lust maybe?
But no, lust is just a cold you catch
That wears off and dances back, unexpectedly and at the most inconvenient of times. Love…
Love courses through the veins, breeds and kneads itself in the cell beds and in my bed
And underneath my sheets and layers of tissues,
Shocks and sedates all simultaneously in a comforting kind of song.
-Lexi Lewis 2012.
If I could even quantify how much I love you
all the stars in the sky would fall short in summation.
why must the weekend come to an end? honestly.
Prawwwm.:)
Prom. :)
I notice the ring that’s landed on your finger, a massive
insect of glitter, a chandelier shining at the end
of a long tunnel. Thirteen years ago, you hid the hurt
in your voice under a blanket and said there’s two kinds
of women—those you write poems about
and those you don’t. It’s true. I never brought you
a bouquet of sonnets, or served you haiku in bed.
My idea of courtship was tapping Jane’s Addiction
lyrics in Morse code on your window at three A.M.,
whiskey doing push-ups on my breath. But I worked
within the confines of my character, cast
as the bad boy in your life, the Magellan
of your dark side. We don’t have a past so much
as a bunch of electricity and liquor, power
never put to good use. What we had together
makes it sound like a virus, as if we caught
one another like colds, and desire was merely
a symptom that could be treated with soup
and lots of sex. Gliding beside you now,
I feel like the Benjamin Franklin of monogamy,
as if I invented it, but I’m still not immune
to your waterfall scent, still haven’t developed
antibodies for your smile. I don’t know how long
regret existed before humans stuck a word on it.
I don’t know how many paper towels it would take
to wipe up the Pacific Ocean, or why the light
of a candle being blown out travels faster
than the luminescence of one that’s just been lit,
but I do know that all our huffing and puffing
into each other’s ears—as if the brain was a trick
birthday candle—didn’t make the silence
any easier to navigate. I’m sorry all the kisses
I scrawled on your neck were written
in disappearing ink. Sometimes I thought of you
so hard one of your legs would pop out
of my ear hole, and when I was sleeping, you’d press
your face against the porthole of my submarine.
I’m sorry this poem has taken thirteen years
to reach you. I wish that just once, instead of skidding
off the shoulder blade’s precipice and joyriding
over flesh, we’d put our hands away like chocolate
to be saved for later, and deciphered the calligraphy
of each other’s eyelashes, translated a paragraph
from the volumes of what couldn’t be said. “The Benjamin Franklin of Monogamy,” Jeffrey McDaniel (via clavicola)
This is literally one of the best works of poetry I’ve read.
