It’s in my dreams.
It’s in the smell of coffee and the scent of morning
In the trails of shadows at dusk
In your incomprehensible whispers in my ear
In the space between your neck and shoulder
In the touch of starchy sheets of my unearthed bed against my skin.
My fingers brush along the edges yet I cannot grasp.
I want to break my fingers
Bang my head against the wall
Tear my hair out and scream like a banshee in hysterics.
I want to scratch my face until the skin peels and grind my teeth in boulders till they all fall off.
I want to hold your hand and memorize all the lines on your palm and calluses of each finger.
I want to linger on the empty space in the crook of your neck and make it my home.
I want to be lost in the capture of your warm embrace with your heartbeat as lullaby.
I want to be your sanctuary as you sleep and be the witness of every single breath you take.
I want to be kissed by your soft lips and feel that you want me as I want you.
I want to be comforted of the thought that you love me as I love you.
That I am your home as well.
But these I am afraid to tell you.
It’s 2 am and I can’t go back to sleep.
I smoked a stick but I still don’t feel any better.
It’s 3 in the morning and I’m going in circles.
Things I don’t want to think about keep sitting in my head.
I’m trying to write a story but I can’t ever get a word.
I drank coffee but it’s no help.
It’s 5 minutes till it’s four but there’s still not even a sentence.
And I think my brain is fried;
From ruminations, work repetitions, dry spells and plights.
I’m afraid my mind has become so tired and dried and turned into junk,
No creative juices flowing and no muses ever dared to visit anymore.
But even so, I still am trying and going to write, write, write.
And now its four o’ five, the roosters are crowing and my stomach is grumbling,
I guess I’ll have breakfast for now.
An old poem transferred from my old blog site.
“unearthed” from a series of letters I’ll never send.
I will be transferring in this site my old poems from my former blog site tockainwonderland.
via Daily Prompt: Tend
I tend to bite my nails.
I tend to chew on my lips.
I tend to pull my hair.
I tend to grind my teeth.
I tend to go in a daze.
I tend to stare up at the sky.
I tend to write neurotically-thought poems.
But today, I wrote a poem spontaneously for the first time about Tend.
the taste of smoke and licorice
from him to her, from her to him
with each nip and each dance of their tongues
his insatiable hunger burns a drought
he savors her sloppy drunken kisses
for in his mind
—this might be the last.