Forgiveness

This is not a love poem.
I found you years ago,
Though it seems sometimes like yesterday.
I was instantaneously drawn to you,
Like a flies to rotting fruit.
You were broken and I knew I could fix you.
I could duct tape your broken wings and help you fly
Straight into the sun.
But you were no Icarus,
And my last name never has been Wright.
You were Henry Miller
And I could have been
Aniäs Nin.
But I was bound hand and foot to another.
That never stopped us.
We drank cheap beer together,
And reminisced about the old days when we were young
Before we knew the other existed.
It didn't matter that night,
We were too drunk
Or too high
To notice.
We played poker with body language.
You'd bet with a look
And I raised you a touch,
And before we knew it, we were going to your room.
But this isn't a love poem.
"Jess, I know I don't have much and you have a son, but I have a plan,"
Shut up and kiss me.
I wasn't interested in plans or what you had,
I was selfish.
I was bored with what I had and you, You were shiny and new and beautiful.
You made love to me three times that night,
I fucked you three times that night.
It was a full moon,
And I was hungrier than a starved wolf.
You held me all through the night.
You brought me coffee and cigarettes in the morning,
I thought you were just being a gentleman,
You actually were taking care of me.
I was a master manipulator,
A master of secrets,
A master of the dark.
And you were trying to feel something, anything, but the hole left in your heart.
This is not a love poem.
My life as I knew it,
The life I had carefully put together,
The life I shared with him,
Crumbled two days later.
For as Much as I have tried,
I have never been a good liar.
You were there,
But I shunned you almost as if it was your fault.
This is not a love poem.
It took me two years after our night together,
To finally figure it all out.
You've found someone new now,
So have I.
And we have talked since,
And I apologized,
But I don't think you ever heard me.
You told me not to worry about it,
You told me that you were thankful.
You told me you were fine,
I believed you,
Because you were all of those things.
I figured it all out, two years later.
I self sabotage.
I think I don't deserve things,
Good things,
Good people,
Goodness.
I had all of those things,
And I took all of those things away from myself.
You were an innocent bystander,
Not a catalyst.
You are good and right and selfless.
I see it in you every time we bump into each other.
You were never wrong for what we did.
I took you away from me, too, that weekend.
I lost out on you,
And not in the romantic way.
I damaged things,
Burnt bridges,
Broke bonds.
I see that now.
And for the record, I learned my lesson and forgave myself
For the record,
I am sorry.
This is not a love poem.
This is an apology.

Omission

Today, I thought about you.
I thought about the way the dim light on your dresser illuminates the planes of your face.
How hauntingly beautiful that is.
I wondered if you knew how I see you.
I watch you often.
I memorize the slightest details of your face.
I can see it when you hold back a smile,
or when you're being seductive,
I can see the ghosts that lie behind your eyes.
You asked me the other night
what my favorite part of your body was.
I could have easily said that I loved your cock,
watched your ego inflate,
but I didn't.
I said that I loved the space in between your shoulder blades, especially when you lay on your stomach.
I could tell that you were suprised.
That space, though,
that little flat crevice,
I love it.
When you lay on your side,
with your back to me,
I can nestle my face in there
and breathe you in.
The light on your dresser
casts a perfect shadow
so sometimes it looks like
a valley
and I like to trace my fingers up and down the hills of your shoulders.
Your shoulders attach to your arms.
And your arms,
they tell stories about you.
Those arms pin me down in
fits of passion,
they throw me up against walls,
across your bed,
and against counters.
Your arms keep me safe.
They hold me up when I can no longer stand,
they wrap around me when I need to be close,
they bring me back to earth
after you've thrusted me into oblivion.
I love your arms.
Your hands come next.
Your hands are fucking beautiful.
They create beautiful things, treasures, art.
Your hands invoke orgasms, cries of ecstasy, and pleasurable pain.
Your hands hold mine,
They tangle in my hair,
And they trace up and down my spine.
I love your hands.
I love your chest.
I feel safe up against it,
Whether I'm being crushed or held,
It supports me.
I press my ear against it often,
Just to be close to your heart.
I love your chest.
I love your legs.
Your legs carry you to me.
Your legs dance with me.
I think about how beautiful they are,
Well muscled, almost statuesque.
Your legs are made of steel and silk
I love your legs.
And your face...
Your face...
Your eyes are icicles and snow and sky and ocean.
I stare into them and see the infinate,
And I see cold fires.
Your lips are soft and perfectly shaped to fit mine,
And when you kiss me,
I feel every part of your soul behind it.
Your mouth tells me secrets, stories, truths, and promises.
You build bridges,
Tempt storms
And break me with your mouth.
Your nose is handsome.
It provides the perfect perch for your glasses,
A landing spot for my staccato kisses,
And finds its way to the soft spot on my neck, where shoulder meets clavicle.
I love your face.
So when you asked me what part of your body I favoured,
I made an omission of truth.
I favour all of your parts,
From your head to your feet.