I Do

I’ll wear the dress and you’ll wear the tie.
We’ll swear to be true for all of our lives.
We’ll say our ‘I dos’ and watch the time fly
and I’ll love you til the day that I die.

We’ll grow up together and dream up a plan,
coconspirators and lovers so grand.
We’re making our way as best as we can,
we’re making our way, your hand in my hand.

Because I’ll be the leaves and you’ll be the tree
and I’ll be the flowers if you’ll be the bees
we’ll invent our own kind of harmony
as we write our love story, you and me.

For my favorite human and dearest friend, the man who will be my husband in 46 days


My Daisy Girl

She shines brighter than the solstice, a happenstance beauty on the brink
dancing sweetly through her days, memories of springtime in her name.
Quietly curled up in the sunshine, her brown skin radiates warmth
while her soul drinks deep outside of the box of fanciful thoughts,
for she is seldom still, much like the things that she loves.
Paradigms are not permanent fixtures in her world.
My Daisy girl, look how much you’ve grown.

Yours and Mine

With every virtue at our disposal,
an arsenal full of good intentions,
and hearts eager to feel the shine,
we undertook a challenge, once upon a time,
in order to form a more perfect love,
conceived in liberty, matured in trust.
Philosophically waxing until much too late,
unconventional dinners in lieu of dates.
What’s mine is yours and what’s yours is mine.

A daring provocation, but we were bold,
undeterred by unforeseen circumstances,
despite our lack of a guru, a guide, a plan,
we would dissect our very natures to understand.
We boarded the train with no ending in sight,
claiming that our lives were a journey
and that we were destined to drink it all in,
though we six were confined to living in sin.
What’s mine is yours and what’s yours is mine.

Written for RhymeZone’s 2014-2015 Poetry Contest.
Rules/View my submission

A Question

You contemplated a question,
carefully crafted, contents crucial
yet cruelly confined to your chest.
Common questions quite like this
coined for crushes and callgirls
that candidly cancel your concern.
Canopies of calculated Cassanovas,
cajoling and charismatic charmers
clear in their clawlike cesarean caresses.
Cutthroat consummations must cease.
Coalescent carnality and caring
make for better companions
copious in the core.

Courteous Lovers

Just filthy enough to make it interesting
without crossing over the threshold to vanilla.
Your willingness to grab my throat and hair
is more arousing than the feel of you in me.
The way you manipulate my body is greater
than any first time lover I’ve ever had.
You keep giving and giving until I can take no more.
Are all older men such courteous lovers?
I feel beautiful and without shame
as my tongue tastes of salt of your skin
until we are left outside of our bodies.

Skin Stories

Kaleidoscopic ink graces your flesh
the story of a girl growing, tales of days past.
I’ve never asked about your tattoos, preferring for you
to reveal their insights in some profound way.
The small of your back proclaiming
that you aren’t anybody’s star is more than enough
for my soul to recognize you as one all the same.
Despite their decorative nature, your skin stories
have never held more appeal than any other aspect
for you are more than the sum of your pieces.

Hold Me Here

It is early morning, the soft purring
of our lovers snores interrupting the silence of the dawn.
The kitchen is dappled in soft slivers of sunlight
and I am a chaos of emotions with a short fuse
ready to be set alight by the least provocation.
Weeping and laughing and laughing and weeping,
drowning in desire with a million thoughts unsaid
clinging to my tongue with unspeakable tenacity.
Where does your skin begin?
Why can’t we just stay here awhile?
Tongue tied in the thickest of tangles,
I will myself to project all that is in my heart
plain and clear, hold me here,
before this moment ends.
But life goes on and so do we,
tentative lovers that we are.