Aural Sex
Your voice,
wraps around me like strong arms
holding me tight.
My whole body opens to catch each thought
as they fall from your lips.
Oh those lips!
I could drink in your voice and it would sustain me.
Pour it over me and make me wet with your words.
I don’t want those self-satisfied sexts.
Call me.
Surround me with your vocal virility.
Call me.
Penetrate me aurally.
I don’t need promises of love.
Just keep talking to me and I’ll keep listening
till I’m satisfied.
Obsolete Sense Memories
One finger to push in the lighter, unlit cigarette in same hand,
the click it makes when ready, device popping to attention,
the redness of the heated coil, its bright orange center a contained flame,
the sharp scent of tobacco, the smoky ash on cooling filament,
tapping ashes out the window or brushing them from your jeans.
One hand on a cassette, the other holding the wheel,
the whir of engagement, guitar solo screeching as it unravels,
the tangle of grayish-brown tape drawn out slowly, spun back into place with a pen,
the snap of a plastic case, the crunch as it breaks underfoot,
reading microscopic liner lyrics or deciphering your writing on a mixtape.
Left hand rolls up the window, right hand holding yours,
the squeaky back seat with seating for three, embedded seatbelts rarely fished out,
the thud as the back seats fold down, the station wagon becomes stationary,
the windows fogging in autumn chill, the static audible from the radio,
shifting position to move closer and exploring each other for the first time.
Summer’s Color Change
I’m Not Her
That will never be me
Her smile 1000 watts
The summer sun
Her laughter filling you like a hug
Images on a static screen
Collected and fragile
Like butterfly wings
Her memory caresses like kisses.
I struggle to fill the void she left
Painfully aware of what I lack
A role I was not asked to play
I step back to assess the damage.
That will never be me
I have my own smile
The crescent moon
My laughter floating into the sky.
Images of myself
Insecure and hidden
Like insect shadows
My reality falls like tears.
Paper Girl
Flurry of words
brought us together
professing her love
in inkjet staccato
or stilted penmanship
honest
raw
between sheets of paper
so much heat generates.
A passionate penpal
first-time romance
she sent me her soul
on eight by eleven
but it wasn’t to be
fleeting
ephemeral
when we step off the page
once we actually meet
boundaries blur
desires cool.
I keep my Paper Girl
in a collection of memories
to unwrap in old age
tender
fragile
unfold cold brittle parchment
where her warm heart still beats.
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