i will show how i take casual & embellish into:

Heartsick is not among my favorite
feelings. Nor is sadness due to the inability
to have the one I want, nor a billowing sheath
of perpetual lovelust wonder.
I gave you my words, scrawled out in the heat
of the night, darkness pressing onto my curved
back and curiousity swallowing my swollen heart.
The envelope skittered onto your desk and I had turned
away before I realized that you had picked it up,
cut it open, absorbed the delicately threaded words (much as
you have done to me without the slightest awareness).
You came after me,
calling my name quietly,
meeting my stationary form in the dusty damp hallway.
You thanked me, a deliriously serious and heartfelt
gaze decorating your face, and our bodies came together
in one sweet casual moment,
fitting perfectly
as I've known and worried they would.

embellishment:

You were hungry, you explained. So hungry, and I came at just the right moment
with a box stocked full of tantilizing treats.
You nearly grabbed the box
from my hands
your skin skimming my own
in your frantic sedentary beline for calories.
Filling a void, again and again,
I've watched you try to close the emptiness.
Your eyes dug into mine,
steady aqua shoving against yellow-green.
I wanted your hunger--
I wanted you to admit your hunger.
I am perceptive, you know this,
and we stalk the white elephant in the room
tripping into lines of vision, sprawling
into purposefully ignorant stares.
Tonight I will drink to the chance,
to the cinematic daydream of us,
to the I can see that murmur from our friend,
to the way you drove your gaze into me this afternoon,
to the off-handed smiles and spin-cycle flushes,
to the delerium brought on by your everything,
to how I anger you, and how you frustrate me,
and I will drink to the drink I hand you
in wind-tossed hope and pure,
heart-seizing possibility.

i'm not in love / so don't forget

I don't want to admit
that I like it when you call me baby.
And I won't tell you
that I smile when your tongue slips
and you call me sweetie.
A week, six months, a year.
Ready or not, we might come
as we did
over, and over, and over again.
I sang you eighties love songs
as my fingers played over the warm ocean between your thighs.
You laughed, the sunlight startled us,
and we remembered everything that's always been wrong
is fucking ---.

Won't you come and stay

No / yes / no

I dreamt of segue and transition, all the things we've lacked for five years. Off/on, pressure points blasted by full throttle passion. Yes/no/yes- you've never made up your mind. I broke the word happy over our restless flesh, the sweat drawing tension on my tattooed back. The word rained down like petulant raindrops; a midday reprieve from thunder-dance and you need space.

Where we pay homage to each verb tense, we rest easily in the past. We did, we were, it was, we had. I was. You were. We aren't.

This is a transference of desire. A repetition of never-could-be. Bad timing. Nothing wrong, and that's what's right/wrong.

I could stay here with you forever and be content.

Your mouth stole my lips, my breath, my wary response. The silence robbed my sarcasm, my witty heart-hidden reply. Your fingers pushing through my hair, small brown eyes shut against the glare of sunshine showering over us. I have no remedy for the sickness that's eaten us, the cataclysmic notion that we could be anything more than what we've already been (disaster).

A gold star, a lick of communication. A first.

I have no strings to bind your hands. You won't let me fuck up.

I saw her this morning, and all I could think of was you.
I can't believe I just admitted that.

transference

We've passed from pleasure into pain,
a trimlined segue weeding through
the realm of improbability where sits
your heart and mine.
I have not conquered fear, and it shifts within me
as our mountains stretch into plateaus,
a dancing tendril of daylight creeping
around our purposeful midnight.
I am split open, wounded
for the ruminations, the overlapping rush hour
repetition mottled against our
every-day easy sensual nothing.

You are my sweetest downfall

Sky blue, a new sparkle - (Danish blue; the color of your eyes in June). 21 months of never recognizing. A quick seven months of prolonged wanderlust, desirious deliberation. Fanatical curiosity. I've never asked because I still don't want to know.

Each rise of rose to your cheeks, each maddening flush of my face. Each cryptically ignored register of proximity. You pulled me in when I wasn't expecting to be acknowledged, my tongue smoothly obliging to the context of the conversation that preceeded my entrance. The recesses of my mind tangled over the elevator kiss, trepidation and I dare, but you strayed and brought the focus to a side of you I've never known.

I mistakenly thought you were a passing fantasy.
I don't understand how I've allowed you to become more than that.

Today, you held my stare for a split second longer than average. In a room full of people. We were too close but not close enough -- always, always. There is fire linked between us and you squash the flame.

Intrinsically, I can't tell you if it's going to be or will always be a what if. My head is a blurred mess of fantasy crossing into our greyed-out reality. Did you understand what you wore today? And did you mean to catch my eye so many times, ride out my gaze while talking to everyone else? Did your eyelashes catch on fire from the inferno shooting from my heart?


You are fucking killing me in the most alluring of ways~

Keep with me forward, all through the night

You've infiltrated this house, leaving
fibers of indecency smattered with lust-
I smell you as I walk through the rooms,
a literal fucking ghost meeting me with each pace. I'd be angry
if it meant we'd fallen in love.
You spat the marriage word again, a familiar
intonation of the much-repeated wish to keep
me, tie me down, not let
anyone else have me. But that's not how you mean it.
You don't want me for love,
we want each other for lust. There would be others,
you explain over your naked torso and my lazy fingertips.
Us, and others. Together and separate, all at once and
never at all. For a moment, I think I could
play house with you:
house with a revolving door for our egos and our libidos,
house with an unspoken but laughed about connection.
We didn't get it together years ago, and we won't get it together
now, but where there is nothing to lose,
there cannot be loss.



(i like what we have become/your hands crushing into me/my tongue scalding over you/our naked breasts to our naked backs/you buy dinner/i buy breakfast)

toss & turn around all of the time

I can't tell if I'd rather
A) Get over you
B) Discover that you want me as much as I want you.


Fucking obcrussions.

I don't know why it's so hard to consider this

I am backlash where you are rounded corners easing into synthetic formations. The desert of my heart is aching for a reprieve, and your side-mouthed words, transpiring over your shoulder, do nothing but flame my fire with both animosity and ambivalence.

"A little over the top, don't you think?"

Maybe. And maybe my attraction to you has always been just that.