Twenty-seven.

I want you to
want me like you've
never wanted
any one in your life.

I want you to
yearn for my touch,
my smile, my presence,
even if I don't say
a word to you.

I want you to
shiver when we touch
in a crowded room.

I want you to
watch me walk away
and hope that I'll
come back before you
have to leave.

I want your eyes to
follow me across the
room and watch my
hips when I dance.

I want all of you,
burning inside for me,
the way I do for you.

Twenty-six.

Hold me down,
pull my hair,
cover my body with
yours, tell me
how much I want
it and what a
whore I am and
what a great
cunt I have, tell
me everything
you're thinking
when you fuck me.

Twenty-five.

On nights like tonight,
with thunder rumbling
and the rain leaking
through my ceiling,
I feel like I could
throw away this
unhappiness, shed it
like a skin, that
each rain drop sliding
down the wall is a
fresh start and
the cracking in the sky
is God telling me to go,
to pack up and
head for higher ground
but when the rain stops,
when the puddles all
start to dry up, and
the storm's passed
over head, my fear settles
over me like a cloak and
I convince myself that
tomorrow my unhappiness
will miraculously end, that
I will be happy being a
nine to fiver, a slave to
a desk, a drone, in an
office with no windows.

It never does and
I'm left with a
yearning for the rain.

Twenty-four.

Will we ever have
that Happy Ending
promised by fairy tales?

Or will we pretend
nothing ever happened,
that being friends
is the closest we've
ever been, that I've
never kissed your smile,
that I've never seen
you cry.

We could do this
forever, it could
shred my insides,
but I can be the best
actress once my
heart is gone.

Or will we finally
stop playing? Will
there be a magical
moment where you look
at me and know we're
meant to be? Will you
stop pretending you
don't love me as much
as I love you?

Twenty-three.

I can see the clearing
at the end of this path
for the first time
in twenty-five years.

I'm being pushed
towards it by my age,
my education,
and I don't know what
I'll do when I get there.

It's a joyous moment
cloaked in fear -
now my choices
are my own and so
are my mistakes.

But with each step
my head is clearing
of the forest's fog,
of the voices that aren't
my own. Still the
end is so broad, so
bright, so terrifying.

Twenty-two.

All I ever do
is whine about
love.

It's so pathetic -
you'd think I
never did anything else.

I have a whole
life outside of
pining over my lovers.

I have whole
conversations
without saying anything
about love,
or really,
about heartbreak.

Twenty-one.

I never thought
that I'd be at this place,
where seeing you
doesn't feel like a punch
to the chest.
But I'm looking
at your beautiful face
with your bright blue eyes
and it doesn't feel like
it did before, the pain
is a dull ache
and it doesn't paralyze
me like it used to.

Almost.

This is really just
wishful thinking -
that one day I will
see you and it won't
make my heart
pound, that I won't
dream of you that night,
of what I wish had
happened, instead of
what really did.

Twenty.

My whole life
I always thought
my belongings would
make me happy,
that having this season's
newest would somehow
mask how lonely I am,
how pathetically sad my
life is, and when I had
it but was still miserable,
it was always because
I needed something
else, my ennui was
never a reflection
of myself, although
now I know it is.

I look around
my apartment, at all of
the things I own and
am so unhappy it
is palpable, I feel
my loneliness, hemmed
in on all sides by
the things I own,
like a cage.

Nineteen.

My grandmother
cried in our kitchen
the morning my
grandfather died,
rather than the
home they'd shared
for fifty years.
She said she couldn't
bear to be where he'd
taken his last breath
that Christmas morning.

Eighteen. Poetry won't make you rich

I think the
end is coming.

I think the sun
is setting
and the moon
is rising.

I think I'm
almost ready
to go, I
just need a
few more
minutes.

I think I'm
finally in a
place where I'm
comfortable.

Seventeen.

Sometimes,
when I'm at my worst,
I dream about running
away, about taking a
chance on the only thing
I've ever loved to do.

But I never get
close enough to leaving
before the worry kicks in -
I have a pretty sweet deal here,
what happens after I give it
all up for possible failure?

It's like my body freezes
and I tell myself I wouldn't
succeed anyway, that I don't
even know how,
but isn't life about scaring
yourself to live bigger?

I just haven't reached that
point yet, there one where I'm
willing to give it all up
for uncertainty,
I'm not desperate enough,
yet, but I'm getting there.

Sixteen.

I've lost track of
how many times I've
tried to forget
your face.
Every time I think
I'm finally through,
you glance at me
and I'm down again.
I hate myself for
being your puppy
but I can't seem
to stop,
no matter how
many times
you kick me,
I don't learn.

Fifteen.

I'm not sure there
is any way I could
explain how I feel
about you.

I try to pick
the best words,
the best flow,
but nothing seems
to work.

You're an illusion
slipping away
the closer I try
to get.

There isn't just
one word to
stick on you
and I won't try
to push.

You'll just have
to trust that
I know what
I want and
not believe the
trash coming
from my fingers.

Fourteen.

Every time I try to
touch you,
your shape is a
wisp of smoke
in my hand.

You never let
anyone get close to
you and I know
why, but I
won't stop trying.

I just want
you  to feel
the same way
that I do.

I want you to
think about me at
the most inconvenient
of times, I want you
wet at the worst
possible moment, yearning
for me like I do
for you.

But I think
that already happens,
you already want me.
Its your fear
that stops you.

Thirteen.

I'm not sure there's
ever been a moment in my
life that I haven't been
afraid of what people will
think -
until this moment.

You've filled me
with strength
I thought I
was incapable of.

So when you say
we can't do this,
that we should just
be friends, all I
feel is pity for your
fear.

Now I know
everyone is scared,
well I knew that before,
now I know that
the most terrified are the
ones who say
they're anything but.

Twelve.

I will be the
writer,
you will be my
pen.

Together we will
compose
verse after verse,
we will be
renowned.

Eleven.

I wonder if there's
anything
I could do to
change
your mind,
to keep you
from leaving
because
I am looking at
these photos
of when we were
happy and when
you weren't worried
about what people
thought
and all
I see is your
smile.

Ten.

I thought
I could write
you
out of my
heart
even though
every time I
try
it doesn't work
and
I want
you more than
ever,
more than
I ever did
before
you told
me we should
just
be friends.

Nine. Love you like a love song

This is a poem about lust.

When you talk
I watch the shape of
your fingers as you
move your hand and
wonder what they would
feel like inside me,
curling against my most
private spot with your
wrist between my
thighs and your
mouth on mine, your
chest pressed so close
that it's hard to breathe.

I can hear the way
you grunt against
my collarbone,
feel the way you
roll your hips
against my thigh
for friction even though
it must be too slippery
now, with my hands
touching your hips,
moving you back and
forth against me.

I want to press my
mouth to your fingers,
your neck,
your shoulder blades,
your breasts,
that quiet space
between your legs,
and watch the way you
unwind when you
finally let go, when
you are searching for
pleasure in another.

Eight.

You
are in
everything
I write.

I am
searching
for your face
in a sea of thousands.

I don't know
where I'm going,
how I could possible find you,
or who you are.

There is a
string
between our hearts.

You are
pulling
mine in your direction.
I am merely a
puppet
to your desires.

I don't even
stand
a chance.

Seven. Something from my Hands (for You)

I'll follow you down the street
to your favorite club,
to watch you move -
a flip of your hair,
a shake of your waist,
a twirl of your skirt -
it's so breath-taking.

I'll watch from the bar,
I'll wait on your sidelines
to take you home
when you're done with
admiration.

I'll show you how I worship you-
with my fingers,
my hands,
my mouth -
all tracing my favorite shapes
on your smooth skin.

You'll dance for me
the way only I can make you.
You'll sigh in ecstasy
and I'll shiver when you thrust your hips.

They've seen you move,
but I watch you soar.
It's something so much more
than they can understand -
those club kids,
those junkies along the walls
following your every move,
hoping to take you home.

They don't understand that your gaze
is always mine,
that your body is my temple,
that they don't stand a chance.

Six. Turned you into someone new

I've left the paper
in search of life
on foreign continents
and I left the pen
on a chair
at Charles de Gaulle
but they're always
haunting me,
reminding me of my
mediocrity,
my inability to capture
my life in any sort of form,
my inability to articulate
the way I feel
when I've lost everything.

Five. And it flies and it flies by night

I just want to feel
your hands
on me,
in me,
mostly between my legs.

I want to feel
like you'll never stop.
I want your mouth
and your breasts
heaving for me
with every breath.

I want you
wet for me all day -
so much so that
your thighs clench
and you have to
masturbate in the bathroom,
pretending your fingers
are mine.

I just want you to feel
the way that you
make me feel -
constantly on edge,
with my heart racing
and a damp spot
between my thighs.

Four. It's empty in the valley of your heart

Sometimes all it takes
to bring me to my knees
is one look from you
with that raised eyebrow,
that sneer.

It's like you can barely
stand to look at me,
the fire in your glare
is enough to make me wish
death would be swift.

And every word I write
is stilted and forced
where they used to flow so
gracefully.

You've stolen them from me
with your anger, your hate
your heartbreak
and all I want is to soothe
your wounds like aloe
but you won't even glance at me.

You're the worst ice queen
I've ever met.
Stop pretending I hurt you
when you ripped my heart from my chest
and tossed it aside
because it wasn't ripe enough.

Your high standards
are a smoke screen
for your fear of being
close to anyone
who could love you.

And your words
they sting,
but I've heard worse
from people scarier than you.

Maybe I should listen to my friends
but I never have been
good at taking advice or
backing away from an open flame.

These cuts sting
but they heal so nicely.
The more you push,
the more I know
I'm right.

Three. Sometimes I am pathetic

We weren't the most graceful
or beautiful
on the dance floor last night
but your hands on my waist
were perfect.

The stories you told
as we awkwardly swayed
did nothing
to abate the desire for you
that pooled between my legs.

When the first song ended
we paused.
I thought the moment was over
but another began -
you told me it was your favorite
as you pulled me back in to your embrace.

Our friends watched from the sidelines,
their cameras flashed
as we laughed
but we didn't slow our steps
for their entertainment.

As the final song ended
you stepped away.
I was bereft but you
kissed my hand saying you'd
see me at the after party.

I walked across downtown
with visions in my head of your
reaction when you saw me again
and they were all better
than what actually happened.

My buzz had long worn off
but yours was still heavy
as you asked if I enjoyed
our dance then left when
you were distracted by your friends.

As the bar closed,
we all stumbled to our limos,
goodbyes dripping from our lips.
You went around the circle
kissing cheeks, saying good night.
But you missed me.

I'd waited months
for that dance.
Everyone was so excited
thinking we'd finally gotten our act together,
everyone but you.

As you walked into that night
with another friends' jacket
across your shoulders, you spared
a fleeting glance and a wave
and a "you look amazing."

Now that the photos have
been developed, the evidence is
there to see but you still
look at me like you used to -
guarded and slightly distrustful,
like I'm out to trick you in to
falling in love with me.

Or something.
Either way I cherish
the memory of your face so
close to mine and your laughter
when we danced
that night.

I'll hold it
close to my chest
only opening it during the
darkest of times -
when you don't look at me at all.

Two. I guess I should do this in order

When I look across the table
I see the blue in your eyes,
your hands on the table top,
that raised brow, that smirk,
and I want to reach out
pull you across that surface,
slick with beer and condensation.

I want to put my hands
all over you
on top
below
inside your amazing body.

I want to push your jacket
off your shoulders and press
my hands to your ribcage and bite
the corner of your smile.

I want you to laugh at how
desperately I need you out
of your clothes and your eyes
are on mine and your bra strap is sliding
down and I can't hear
anything over the sounds of
our breath and there's a hitch
in yours when I reach between
your legs and who cares where
we are and who cares who is
watching, all I see is you.

... I've gotten so
lost in my daydream that
I don't even hear you
call my name but your
hand on mine sends a shiver
through me when I imagine
it between my legs and pauses
my breath.

Your eyebrow lifts
but you don't say
anything.

One. I always say I'll never do this again

This is my poetry blog. I always tell myself I won't do this again but here I am.

I'm in my mid-twenties, which hurts to say, and I'm a graduate student. Surprisingly, or perhaps not, I am in professional school, not studying creative writing. I'm also gay, which doesn't pertain to anything, but I'm still getting comfortable admitting it.

My style is very straight forward. I think I would say it's similar to Stephen Dunn. I read a lot of that as well as Pablo Neruda and random others. I'd love to talk about my poems or just post them, whatever.