there are plenty of reasons why i love you,
like the zesty way you tinge my tongue,
but the best reason would be because you prevent scurvy. 

sweltering summers
bring on a change in love,
ice-cream embraces. 

The Russian Revolutions of 1917, by John Shelton Curtiss
page 8 // cause its policy favored moderate political reform rather than radical

A lost cause, a radical change -
From favored butterfly kisses,
And moderate brushes of skin;
A reform of its policy of eyes
For you and only you,
To political politeness.
Because rather than providing closure,
there was a revolution.

Elise.

Summer ballads of sugary sweet treats,
Paralleled by sleepy clouds and warmed dankness.
The temptation of air-conditioned basements and
late-night movies and discussions of everything
And anything.

Jostled by the quiet murmuring of the night,
Under the blanketed streets,
Listless monsters rise.
Idle times have passed; endlessly
Aching for aggression.

i’m the type of girl that never falls in love first.
it’s always 60/50 - you/me.
we’re not going to kiss all the time,
but i want you to hold my hand,
and touch the small of my back.

i like staying home.
we’ll watch movies.
i’ll cook,
and you’ll clean.

i like it when you’re more in love with me
than i am with you
because it makes me feel safe. 

all you want are pretty girls
with painted lips and bright eyes.
girls with soft voices and
soft hands and soft hearts.
girls with their necks on yours
and hips on yours
and lips on yours.

girls one in a million,
but a dime a dozen. 

feel the rush of the wind against your cheeks,
and taste the arid air, suddenly interrupted by torrential downpours.

warm. wet. moist.

scintillating dewdrops in the midst of gray skies and hot weather.
fog masking our view.

coquette: her skin plump and soft, like peaches.
thin fabrics tinged with the slightest traces of sweat.
and the sweetest scent of summer.

night falls again and
i’m racing against the clock and
for some reason, i’m losing.

quiet murmurs escape your lips and
the taste of persimmons and
strawberry lip balm linger.

dissipating slowly, your skin and
your voice and
your face.

Oh, iron monster, tempt me closer with your wicked cool.
Your rusty soul, your wide-mouthed brim, your glistening bolts
Of steel and of secrets - they hold much more than you let on.

When my eyelids, heavy as stones, fall to my lashes,
I anticipate the dreams that weigh heavy on my heart
Of underwater cities and of things that were meant to be.

The drop down isn’t much too far, but I hang on to your copper self,
And, for once, I am afraid to release you from my grip, even after
I had imagined myself doing so over and over and over again.

The dawn approaches once more, just like yesterday -
Just like the day before and before,
And we are interrupted yet again, by those unsmiling visitors
With their hearts pumping and their engines roaring.

as silence escapes
your quivering, timid lips,
my valves desist (they are rebellious).

but like the dark birds
that depart to seek refuge,
(there is none) they return to proper order.

and again, i am
at peace with myself-
with the world and with your empty reflection.

it is my red chest
(not my heart) that pains me so.
and the hired help refuses to answer my calls.

postmortem, shallow;
used to define what is left
of the shell that sits, lonely, on my dresser.

i find no answer
for the questions you don’t ask.
yet your eyes cast down, as if i disappoint.

(let’s pray that this passes.)

(Source: just-like-judas.blogspot.com)

Acknowledge my smile, return it,
Yet love is still deferred by the glass planes
Of your ribs, guarding your heart from my greedy hands.

Like a serpent’s tongue my own seeks its home,
Behind my lips that belong against yours,
That taste of fruit from the garden of Eden.

I cannot help that glutton plagues me
Of the lust and love of your throbbing pulse,
Satiate my wanton needs and my aching veins.

Desperately I cried, like the watchmaker,
Whose palpitations become erratic when he has no business,
And when he cannot fix something so simple as the cadence of his own heart.

no sleep,
i promised.
because i had to finish
packing
and
other things
i forgot about.

but boston
so close,
yet so
seemingly far.

only a bus ride away.

hummus and pita bread
and two friends
accompany me.

as we travel

to find adventures
in

boston.

i breathed in
the boston air
and i felt
nauseous.

but it felt so nice
to be somewhere else
for a change.

the five days
and four nights
were such a blur.

i remember:
(and not in this order)
opening a box of crackers
(“what flavor are they?”)
hospitality of Sheila (but really Cecelia)
tea and couscous at Algiers”brunch” at Paramount
Berry Line
dinner with Rich (who likes Chinese food)
braving the snow
sleeping in the same room
and falling asleep to
youtube videos and
english tv shows
icy hills (“oh Lord, oh Lord!”)
tzatziki sauce stories
and
red cups and dorm rooms and
“Don’t suck him,
until you love him.”

and nothing more.
until i revisit the
hundreds
of photos i snapped.

as the bus ride
comes to a halt
and we lug our
bags across
the nitty,
gritty
surface of what
can only
be my
Home
(with a capital H),
i feel as if
i can breath
again.

but i wouldn’t mind
making boston
my second
Home.

i think
i found my
future husband
because he
got me a disney
related present,
and gummy
bears,
even though i asked
for a cheeseburger.

(i swear,
it isn’t this easy
to win my
affections.)

secret santa
always makes me
happy.
especially
when people
like my gift
and the card
that comes along
with it.

split decisions
to go get
pitas
because it’s cold
are always the best
ones
(plus, chipotle
was really crowded
anyways).

and birthdays
are my favorite
especially when
they’re not
mine.

and tomorrow
festivities will
resume
with the Met
and delicious
lunch
and other
things that are
legal
because we’re
eighteen.

p.s: nikita
is a pretty
good show.