Coffee, Cigarettes & Cliches

If I kidnapp’d your heart

Dash’d through the fog

Dar’d you to follow its quicken’d sound

The beat of excitement, the beautiful ringing

Can you hear it?

Listen to its thump and throb

What if it wasn’t your heart I robbed?

Though I’ve pluck’d it lovingly

Gave it the place under my pillow

Where I lay my head and Where I wish

For slumber, coming slow, so slow

I wish for a dream within a dream

And the dream being you

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My heart shivers with excitement

Oblivious to the aftermath that’ll ensue

“Ooooh, a muse?”

Googly eyed and pathetic

It begs for more reason to fall further

When I think of you, I think of dandelions

And I loathe the color yellow

I think of gardens and gardens of Eden

Even eating berries and cherries in Eden

Even, drinking lemonade under wispy willows

For a moment, I think of Rebirth

A chance at something I could never catch

The sun spits rays of pity on my sorry brow

Yet

He bows every night to relieve me of the Chase

Where do prayers ascend to?

Do they start at the back of your throat and snowball down the length of your tongue?

Would you whisper in the palms of sinful hands and toss it up towards the heavens?

Could you click your heels three times and end up at god’s doorstep?

Is that too forward?

Maybe there’s a mantra that reveals a trap door?

Or a secret tunnel where all prayers are filed and stored?

Do you flip open up a book on a certain page, close your eyes and hope?

His skin—

Galaxies, I have yet to venture

Mystic, vast and unknown

Too complex for someone as naive as I,

I, the asteroid, floating about without purpose or focus, flawed

Coarse and Porous

Waiting to be pulled into his orbit

Enveloped by black holes

Sweeping up my existence, shaping me into shimmering stardust

His skin—

Graphite grazing the college ruled lines of my dollar store notebook

Cursive connected by the slip of my pencil

Lines of azul cradling my poetic scrawl, promising not to spill these thoughts

No matter how crushing

Pencil pressed into grainy paper, only then are masterpieces possible

Please, Press me into poetry

Press me into poetry

Press me into

His skin—

The sky after 6pm

Heavy, Hazy clouds toeing the skyline’s tightrope

The view behind my eyelids when I trust fall into dreams centered around

His skin—

What God warned Adam and Eve about

Fuck the tree, fuck the apple

Sin can simply be found in

His skin—

A contrast to that milky way grin

The moon is in his gaze

Gleaming for me at night, I pray

His skin—

Full bodied, all bite

No cream,

No sugar

Just 

*Inspired by the Pixies*

Your eyes flickering as if it was your soul I set fire to instead of the bowl. It’s Wednesday. You say, “No it’s not.” I say, “Let me dream!” It’s actually 11:11 on a Tuesday night. Our jobs are a thing of the past, at least until Thursday. We get to that one part of the night (our favorite part), the part where I’m breathing as if I’m quenching a thirst. Deep breaths like swallowing gulps of water with puffer fish cheeks. It’s icy through my nostrils and heavy on my lungs. It feels like I’m lifting weights instead of expelling the weight of finals that are fastly approaching. I take another hit and bow my head in thanks for the smoky blessing in my chest. Hours pass faster than the cars cruising by our hotbox hideout. We reach that part of the night, again, where I let my tongue run rampant.

“Can I entertain you with my high rants?” I say, smiling with teeth the Cheshire Cat would die for.

You throw your eyes to the sky and reach for the bowl. I begin babbling like a brook in hopes I find creativity in this clouded chaos:

“Tar trickles on my tongue as I light my cigarette pulled from a fresh pack

the saving grace to my hectic week

My nostrils flare as I adjust to the smoke finding shelter in my mouth

As menthol mixes with the cold air

my throat mimics a winter wonderland

All frosted over

I close my eyes and exhale

The nicotine is my nostalgia

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Is it okay if i speak in plumes of smoke?

If when I blink my eyes feel full of ash

That with every toke, I forget that I’m broke

I forget that I forget

I forget that I’m here, even though my mind is

Where?

Where?

Where is my m--”

I hear something hushed and in 4/4. I lift my eyes to you, you in your own sanctuary of stonedness. Your lips buzzing, singing that one song by the Pixies.

It had to be at least 2 am, but I was hoping I hadn’t missed the last bus

“But baby, why don’t you walk home? It’s just a mile or two..”

The moon sat pretty, draped about in black satin, serving as a guide

I almost made myself believe the sky could swallow it whole

And as the traffic lights twinkled in time with the stars

1...2...3...

Red!

My body might’ve been there, ass glued to asphalt

3...2...1…

Yellow!

Yet I was as blown as the streetlights

… … ...

Green!

We smoked all night as if it was as natural as breathing

I should leave

I have work at 10am

Should’ve but didn’t

Twinkle Twinkle Little Star

Up above the world so high

How I wonder what you are

Like a Diamond in the Sky

It made more sense in my head⸺

You, you made sure I was seeing nothing but haze

Every time my lips met glass, my lungs welcomed the smoke, engulfed it in hugs

It put me in a daze, eyes glazed like a doll in your arms

You saw nothing wrong, you wanted me to stay

Now I lay, searching the depths of the sky for some kind of truth

Cars swerve by,

see me, and wonder

I want you to know that your body 

isn't made for warfare

There are no red targets painted along your cheeks

I want you to know that you are created 

from Summer soil and fresh Autumn leaves

Your skin? The product of too many kisses from the Sun's beams

Your laugh? Like warm running water, glistening, trickling into porcelain tubs

Beautifully pouring out of you, an unstoppable force

And when you're happy

it's like splitting firecrackers on the 4th of July

Snap, Crackle, Smile

I can't help but stare, society makes you unaware

Your hair

A happy, nappy nest of knots and tangles

A crown of unruly baby locs

Darling,

 I want you to know there is knowledge hidden in your nu growth

Let me love you in words you’ve written for others

Verses you’ve strung into sonnets, metaphors you’ve morphed into flowers

O, Black boy in the mirror with eyes as dark as espresso blends that keep you afloat

Cupid shot me in the eye, maybe that’s why love is blind

I should’ve seen the signs

Yet, I wanted happiness after all I’d been through

I was the pep in your step, your jack in the box, but