Water to the Dead

I left Monday in the yesteryear
Grasping at the straws of this thing that never was
When Tuesday came, I welcomed her with open arms
We frolicked into the good old days
She brought wine, I came with Tilapia
Intertwined like vines
We consummated the perfect date
That was. When it was
The perfect one night stand

Wednesday found me a broken man
Hangover from last night
Dead things swirling in my mouth
After-taste of the bitter parting words
That fractured the short-lived thing that was
Wednesday was one of a kind. She was here one day
Gone the next. But she always returned
She had a sizeable ear that pocketed my words
She smoothened out the harshness
And gifted them back with purple hearts
Wednesday was the epitome of all my days
Dusk came and passed us by
And in my haste to stay the day, I panicked
I shut her out with a mighty shove
When what I meant to do was keep her close

I steeled my heart like never before
That Thursday and Friday were only footnotes
That jostled for space on my squinty floor
I sat Saturday out, I wanted no more
She was pretty and all
Sunny and all that mushy mushy
Girl talk. She found me a hard sale
She tried so hard that she spilled into Sunday
And messed up my day
So I cut her off

In a rare moment of clarity
I remembered how it used to be
When Wednesday smiled upon me
I did what I do best
I frog-leaped back to my happiest day
And stayed.

fleur de l'amour

Her skin so smooth, so supple,

so fresh, is cloaked in swathes

of browns and pinks and translucent nails

on her fingertips,

all so brittle so little, so right for me,

to look at with my browns and blacks and broad angled shoulders

that fit with hers like cogs in a wheel.

Her almond-shaped eyes so cute, so brown

so deep, I waded in their still waters

and lost myself to the magic

that is her and her and her.

Her whites so milky, so clear,

so pure, no wonder my fears all disappear.

Her hair so silky, so long,

it swirls like wind and smells like earth after long-awaited rain.

Her voice so gentle, so sultry,

so soft,  a Siren, she purrs

A sing-song of a thousand bells ringing from afar

Her being so close, Oh God!

So close, It’s so right

So heady with scents of bees, and babies

Of flowers and soap

With a pinch of her sweat and

Unrestrained desire

That wafts through the mists

And stabs through the fogs

She claims me for hers.