Etude IIA Poem by MoiThe stuff three-in-the-morning is made of.Puberty sets an uneven stage, you were a great storming bush,
sifting your identity between your roses and your thorns.
Where in my life
I just begun to speak like pubes
you had exploded magnificently in yours,
(I thought you were brave for streaking)
Livewire, livewire;
frightened by your joking coos,
I thought you understood the language of my whimpers.
The Morse code of batted lashes.
“Ravish me?”
I thought you deciphered my pallor when
I was convinced you kept me
somewhere in your taut chest.
Your blue eyes.
Lulling with the vibrations of your voice
deeper and stronger than mine
(by a year).
Waking up abashed from a dream of a tryst in a rose garden.
You rushed up against me:
you called me “honey.”
You deluged me, I was sopping.
When we are overwhelmed we love?
I couldn’t budge, I kept quiet
and munched in the dark of a closet
on the crumbs of your coquettery.
O! the seeds of your flirtations
outgrew my wits, fertilized by your smile and my self-denial.
And when I broke through,
sick of clutching pillows to simulate your bosom,
when Eros gave me the romantic tourettes
you laughed it off,
and fought the moment with platitudes the girls must’ve heard,
and swam away.
But now, my voice is the lower. But now,
all that glitters is not just your eyes.
It is gone. What happened?
You grew dull and distant. And though misunderstanding bred my singing, 'tis now wisdom who carries the notes.
© 2008 MoiReviews
|
Stats
201 Views
2 Reviews Added on July 5, 2008 Last Updated on July 5, 2008 AuthorMoiAboutI have a head of spiral staircases, ten goofy fingers, and delicious mud-pie eyes. I try to write a little bit of everything, don't we all? more..Writing
Related WritingPeople who liked this story also liked..
|