Lover Part II

The room was dark, like all of them were. He couldn’t remember the name of the hotel he was in. He never could.
There was no heat in the room, and she’d left the window slightly open from last night. She’d been lighting candles left and right, claiming it was romantic, so they’d had to leave the window open as to not asphyxiate.
She was dead to the world as he slowly slid out of bed. He headed toward the cheap shower that the hotel had tacked onto their rooms. The bathroom was small and designed with only one purpose. He turned on the water and shut the door behind him as he stepped in.
She was awake by the time he finished. He smiled the same smile he always used.
“You have to go?” she asked.
“Yes, I’m sorry.”
“That’s fine.” She rolled herself out and into alignment with the floor. She smiled. “It was good. I’ll see you again next week. Here’s your payment.”
He took the money she offered him, tucking it into his pants pocket before turning to get dressed.
“Wednesday again?” he asked.
“Make it Thursday. I’ve got a meeting on Wednesday.”
She stood up and walked to the shower, not bothering with clothes or any form of modesty. The door shut behind her, and he finished getting dressed.
Her purse lay on the ground near the door. He bent down and quietly opened her wallet, removing a small amount of cash. So small she wouldn’t notice.
Once the night was over, he would no longer be her lover, and she had to wait for next week.
He left her in the shower, like he always did. She knew better than to expect anything more.

Lover Part I

I just want to fall
headfirst into
a collapsible image of
silken white sheets
as they tangle around the body
in their forgotten erotic
desire.

Monday's Lover

Monday is forever coloured in the shade
of somebody else's kisses,
painted blue along the white bones of the cheeks,
the budding flush running along the ears,
marking the face of a child caught
in the trappings of first love.
I only remember the soft whisper
of your hand, velvet in the ever tightening grip
of my fingers,
bubbling purple in our embarrassment,
broken light scattered within the strands
of your hair, alight with a fire
neither of us really understood.
For it was Monday morning,
cobalt upon the wire edge of summer's pale wings
as they beat against the mesh
of your bedroom window,
hands clutched together, eyes closed,
door locked with the damp air
soaking through my anxiety,
both of us laid back upon
the rotting frame your bed consisted of, trapped
in the embrace of Monday's lover's
kiss.

Red

Red lips that are not so red.

You smile

with mock sincerity etched upon your face.

You’re laughing at me.

I’d hear whispers late at night, of how

you rip peoples’ hearts out

and leave them to fester in the open air,

blood spilling out,

dying red to black,

sticking, causing a permanent wound,

just like the one you left on me.

Red lips that are not so red.

You pout,

creating the unfair urge to protect, yet

you’re cutting into me.

I’d watch you paint, never sleeping,

creating false visions

and twisted pictures of reality,

paint smeared across the canvas,

staining white with red,

mixing a permanent brand,

just like the one you left on me.

Red lips that are not so red.

You frown

with distain marked upon your brow.

You’re looking down on me.

I’d listen to you criticize and mock

my every move and reaction to you,

launching a frontal attack with words,

piercing deep within my cells,

clouding back a layer of rage,

just like the one you left on me.

Red lips that are not so red.

You laugh,

knowing my limitations and boundaries.

You’re playing with me.

I’d hear your voice with taunting tones,

drawing me in circles,

wearing me down because you know

I can’t resist you,

dark red on skin, you lips on mine,

a branding of ownership by lipstick,

just like the one you left on…

him.

Red lips that are not so red,

sealed tightly against what

I want to hear.

One Thing

I want you to know one thing
about this
about me
about how I feel about you
but more importantly how I wish you would feel about me
because if you smile then laugh, say that I'm great
say that I'm funny
say that you love me
even if I can never become your lover
so please, can you humor me for a day
for an hour
for a minute
for a second frozen in time
pretend that you love me to the end of the world and that your love will never change or waver
pretend that you are mine
because I am already yours and have been long before
you've known it
yet this is wishful thinking
a dream that I can't escape from and sometimes I wish it was over.
Yet I want you to know this
before this dream has ended and we go back to reality
know that I love you and pretend that you love me
just for a second to humor me.

Then we can go back to being
friends.

bleeding

you're bleeding from an open wound
as the fluids slowly mix and grind
with the dirt and charcoal gravel that coats the ground
just like a lover's blanket
as you lay there, sprawled across the cement
arms open to the sky waiting
to drink the rain like medicine and watching
the soft candy of the clouds crawl
across the sky and slowly dissolve
beneath the crimson velvet tongue of the sun
as it plunges back into
the caverns of its mouth while swallowing the ground whole

you're bleeding as the skin peels back
showing the red dyes of passion
oozing down your legs and covering
the marred bruises of a forced love
that are springing from your broken flesh as your heart
beats against your broken ribs erratically
playing the memory of falling hard
and landing backwards on the rough surface
of the ground over and over again
creating an unwanted death bed
as you lie there, hands open to receive the grave
awaiting you

you're bleeding from an open scar
ripped right across your chest
as the soft thumping of your cells
entangle themselves within the heart
and try to squeeze the remaining feelings
that are floating on the surface of the blood
in their coagulated pools of regret
as it cools and pales
slowly draining from the soft petals
of your cheeks in bloom
with the soft scarlet of betrayal

you're bleeding as the flesh is ripped
apart and shredded with
the desperation of a mad lover
seeking his revenge for what he thinks is right
and worth acting on
measured by the wrong values of broken pain
being gently soothed by the smells and taste
of the sunset pooling against your skin
as those silver tears go gliding down
the bloody matter of your face
in all its agonized glory
under the pressure of abuse

you're bleeding from an open wound
as you lay there waiting
to die
while the sun explodes above you
and all the colours begin to run together

organic

for my college professor.

there are these moments
when I'm left with nothing
but a white haze that slowly
clouds through my brain
in an attempt to rid myself
of your voice in my head.
for it's been eight months
and I can't quite let this anger
dissolve along my bones
and wash away into the fresh grass
of summer, my legs
cross into the sky and this page
still blank of all the empty words
forming in the base of my mouth,
my tongue dry against my teeth
in the silence I carried all year
around you.
because I had given up waiting
for this to get better
and am still trying to slowly rebuild,
to strip away the embellishments
and go back to my foundation
before I let you touch my writing
and imprint your voice,
your rhythm, your structure
and design over mine
in an unconscious attempt to please you
and your anger and disappointment
even though I could never have controlled
the outcome of your moods.
because I want to go back to when
this was all organic, uncontrolled
in an all consuming spiral of words,
the pages of my notebooks sticky and matted
with blood, flowers and molted
with colours against the damp of my tongue
licking the ink from the tip of my pen,
with poetry as my lover,
stripped naked to the core of my words
and my voice scratched raw across the page.
there is no need for your words here.

Exactly

I know exactly what I am, even
if I can't word it, even
if I am taken by surprise
against the window of this moment...
because you gave me
these words, in the blackened form of
a lover,
a kiss smeared across the page
in the form of whatever ink was available,
the ring on my hand
and the overwhelming sensation of poetry
stamped across my tongue
in the many languages
of God.
There is no satisfaction entangled
within my arms, strewn
among the sheets and stuck
between the frosting of a kiss...
because,
I've tasted too many other colours,
drunken a different rhythm and sold
my soul to another language
in order to be free.

I couldn't even go back now
if I tried.

The Poet's Lover

Saturday morning,
I lie alone, buried within your bed,
white sheets stained blue, black
in the fit of hallucination
bordered along the edge of your pen,
for I am forgotten,
abandoned in the frenzy of artistic rage.
I don't think I've ever heard your voice,
just the muted, suffocating rasp
of pen against paper.
I know the sounds of vowels squeaking in fear,
curving around in soft puddles
of unknown inspiration.
I know the harsh cried of consonants,
the joyful smile of alliteration,
the secret sighs of metaphors,
imbedded within your poetry,
your madness, your joy
unbridled within the glimpse
of literary violence,
the sweet sounds of sensuality on fire
as your love is melted to the page
without even a chance
to cool.

The only whispers of a conversation
I hear from you
are painted wide within the arcs
of poetry.
There are no thoughts other than
this moment of carefully
knitted words.