I used to be very embarassed about showing people any sort of poetry I had written – not to mention such slushy heart-baring stuff as this. Now it doesn’t bother me too much, and I think publishing stuff via the net gives a sense of detachment too, so it feels less exposing and embarassing, even though in reality I am exposing my quite bad poems to a potentially infinite worldwide audience (potentially infinite – my blog hit counter registers just a very modest number of people viewing this site). Nevertheless I will still blush if anyone I know mentions having read this blog, but then I tend to go red at pretty much any given situation anyway, so it doesn’t matter.
I wrote this poem a few months ago for my American girl (cf: Your Red Sock, Siren Call). We are no longer together. Really it would increase the appeal of this blog (such as it is) if I spilled my heart on the matter, but I don’t really go in for that.
This is a poem expressing those times when all you really want is her, and you can never quite get enough. I still feel like this about her to a degree, but that’s no use as our differences are too extreme. I will probably write a poem about losing her (again) soonish.
On to the poem itself:
I miss you, I want you; yearn to reach out
and touch you, across the
vast grey wastes of water
that divide us;
Touch you with my hands
that are always empty without you,
feel the warmth of your skin,
beautiful brown, next to mine.
I could spend a lifetime exploring
the contours of your body – every smooth line –
an hour drinking down the taste
of your lips, sweet like wine.
To taste the very essence of your being
is what I thirst for,
to swallow every last drop
is what I want – and then more.
I want to talk with you, laugh with you,
tell you all the ways
that I love you.
Or just stand and smile for days,
in silent heart-swelling happiness.
Perhaps I’ll show you poems (better left unread)
or tell you daft jokes (better left unsaid).
Sit with you on a park bench,
lie with you in a soft bed.
You make me feel more than lust.
I lie awake and dream of your dark eyes, your lips, your bum;
dream of thrusting inside you until we
I want you to lie in bed
all morning with me,
and we’ll tell the rising sunne
he’s only half as happy as we.