infinite tenderness

Being reunited with your first childhood love is something that feels very sudden, out of place, yet completely in place: fitting like a puzzle piece into your life. Seeing her again is like closing my eyes on a rollercoaster and opening them again only when they tell you to take off your seatbelt: and you feel like you’ve missed out on this whole middle chunk and you wished you were there to see it (yet you also don’t), so you just get the end product delivered to you. No labels. No preamble. Just the person with a smile that has shifted slightly and eyes that have lost and gained hope for what seems like centuries. And you remember seeing her joyous and naïve and ignorant, her eyes wide open like gemstones begging for light, for life to hit them. But it’s still all there. And the whiff you smell when she passes you is always the same and you know that if you were to squeeze her all into one drop of essential precious oil, it would smell as strongly and beautifully as it did three years ago. She wears scars now, but she also wears the same golden nail polish, and this little curious quirk has popped up in her- and it drives me crazy: her curiosity for life. She’s sticking her tongue out to taste what it feels like to be alive. And I’ll always feel this infinite tenderness towards her.

Advertisements

evening waves

Evening waves,

tell the most beautiful of tales.

 

Electronic

grid-like fluctuations,

jittering trepidation:

 

waves,

 

lulling

each other out of and back to

incandescent

sleep.

 

Murky mercury

hiding under slick

silver.

These

glowing

pre-pubescent hills,

too scared to expand,

hence, retract,

push back.

 

Suddenly with a playful,

almost knowing

glint,

they change their mind,

and roll forwards,

loll their head back,

with hair that

sprinkles baritone

hums

down the ocean’s spine.

 

Hums of

an unrecognizable

tale;

just like the tide,

it spirals out of its

shell as rapidly as it

scurries back

behind a

wave’s swish

of a gown,

hiding their blooming

flourishing

cheeks:

 

ready to exhale

salty relief.

 

And if the tide

subsides

and if

the waves

turn sleepy,

eyelids folding over the shore

with what seems

like

infinite

patience,

 

then, humans lean

over. Look closer,

and in this miracle,

they see

featherlight depictions

of who they dream

to be:

sensual figures

skate alongside

waves,

ever morphing

ever merging,

becoming one.

 

For that second,

life seems a bit more

mystical.

crum-pets

crumpets

my tongue taps the palate

twice

two consonants

bounce

pounce

between my

lips

 

i sweetly formulate

the word and

it languidly

glides down

onto the plate

like butter

 

mewling in pleasure

the syllables

sink into

the miracle before me;

 

and under the sunlight

it’s color teeters between

golden hair and

creamy licks.

 

its edges break silence

crisply with

compliance

as teeth create

clean cuts,

and slice,

rip,

scratch it apart

like one of pavlov’s

dogs

 

mercilessly,

ceaselessly,

but with method.

 

and i’ll be left

with crumbles that have

nowhere left to go

like lost children in a

mall,

they desperately

recompose try not to

decompose

after a moment of trepidation-

i edge closer,

jaw slack,

sticking my tongue out-

they land on it quite

bluntly

like land mines exploding

into last flakes of

pleasure

 

… it’s gone

 

i guess i’ll toast another-

the butter’s out of the fridge

anyway