Nauseous Nostalgia

Today I'm homesick. I long for melodies to songs I thought I forgot, I yearn for the pride that can only be felt for low green hills that meet white sand beaches. I long to dance in the dark and run towards hidden horizons. Long drives that act as lullabies and end at tall feather beds with pillows that are always mysteriously cool to the touch, call to me softly. The air conditioning in my new apartment doesn't make the familiar sounds of a slow creek meandering outside a faraway window, it creeks in other ways that startle me awake and leave me breathless and unnerved. I wish for the warm sticky hands of a child to latch about my leg as they exude squeals of pure delight. I miss my huge gossipy extended family I took for granted as I hid in their midst. Now what feels like a million miles stretches further between us and empty holidays end in empty phone calls. I list and loft above stress levels, I makeshift a family between lovers and find it lonely and fairly unrewarding compared to forced holiday meals and the smells of homemade pasta sauce. Home is but a feeling? No. Home most certainly is a place that holds my heart and sometimes my mind.

Not the Art Lesson I was Looking For

Does it look like the wind has whipped through my eyes? Because I feel completely hallow and yet drowning simultaneously. A long needle meant for draining lungs must have pierced my heart and I feel sick. Sick at myself for only trying to please you while everyone hushes and whispers about appeasing you. Their thought process more self centered, more on par with running from your wrath, escaping your scorn and basking only in the sunshine of your praise. I easily bore the brunt of all the wrong over the last week, I have talked you off ledges and yet not into bed, I feel pushed away while you row towards brighter, healthier shores. The pit in my stomach turns black and my face snarls to match it. It's the last thing I want to say but, my little heart breaks and I seethe with jealousy. If you come back in here I promise not to say things that will make you run away, I promise to act perky when in fact I feel so tired, tired of being the miser of my feelings and tired of over thinking my own thoughts. But you don't come back, you leave in an all too important rush, and again I find the words "my poor broken little heart" repeating repetitiously through my over thought thoughts. Did we draw the line already? Or is it that you're under the weather again? What I wouldn't give to go back to a time when I didn't feel, back to a time before these emotions took hold of my meager hand and pulled me down towards these incongruent depths. As if that time ever existed, as if I haven't always wanted you to hold me tightly and kiss me hard from the moment I set eyes on you. And so here I sit alone again dizzy from spinning my wheels and hoping that you'll hold me once more, hoping I'll find the congruence in all the incongruency, hoping that your nonresponsiveness speaks only to your status quo and not that deathly line we think we ought to draw, at this point I think we've gone far beyond doodling.

Pondering on a Horizontal Heat Wave

Steam rises from my hot skin as I try to sleep in your bed,
the fan whips wind around the room and I feel lonely.

Why is it so hot in here?
Why can't I sleep while you slumber soundly beside me?
These questions leave me listless as I try to melt into your bed like a pile of ice cream, sweet treats infusing the sidewalk with the colors of velvety mint and milky chocolates.

Dreams elude me and I toss and turn into you hoping to steal some of your sleep for myself, no such luck.
I spread and kick the sheets and wonder about the temperature outside, the fan has started to cool my skin but my mind counts on at a feverish pace.

If I fall asleep that will mean our secret embraceable weekend is over and I'll wake to the real world, I'll ponder your weekend in public but know that the privacy we found was nothing less than glory.

So I tick on, maybe the time change has left it's trail on my internal clock, my finger taps the side of the mattress, suddenly you awake breathless and detail the dream you were having while grabbing my hand.
I smile as you settle back into what might be left of your dream, I think you also smile but in the dark I can't be certain.
My legs restless yet exhausted from dancing in the afternoon.
Reaching for stars that had yet to appear and grinning wildly wide from the familiar feelings of confining shoes and abandoned movements.

I start to choreograph here under your silky comforter and slowly my mind wanders toward the much anticipated goal of sleep.
Like a downy feather floating slowly from the sky, each breath, each imagined pirourette, the feather falls a little further until finally finding rest, my eyes close and I dance right into wind whipped dreams.

Before I Forget

I want to kiss you before I forget what you taste like
I want to hold you before I forget what you feel like
I want to lie in your bed before I forget what your sheets smell like
but the loud humming of machines is all I can hear
not a taste, touch or smell can penetrate the clouds in my ears.

I want the image of you standing behind me, kissing where my neck meets my shoulder to be a memory not a dream
I want to lay my head on your bare chest to hear your caged heart thrash against your ribs.
I want to have a pocket full of postcards of all the places we have been
but never leave the crushing softness of your bed.

All these wants are left for wishes as you kick me with compliments and shuffle off leaving a wake of my oozing heart.
Do I run after you and grab your hand in defiance?
No, you continue to lead this waltz to nowhere
less of a dance, more of a silent stand off for good face time

Invite me somewhere with you
Ask me to wrap my arms around you once more before the week ends.
I have chills that speak to the cold of the surroundings
but from this freezing tower I look out on humid nights
and wait for you to offer your hand for a promenading debut

It's just that I may catch a chill before you have the opportunity to offer said palm.
So hurry and turns my wants and dreams to reality before I forget.

Fickle Friction

I watch you sleep and crave to kiss you in the dark glow of your television. Your heavy breathing calls for heavy petting but I waver to wake you. Instead I plant soft kisses on your shoulders, you stir awake with gratitude but fall back to dreamland just as quickly. I need more, I'm uneasy as the week begins again but I can't fight for a love that isn't there or must be hidden between corps and corporations. We rile for the weekend but the mean time leaves me lethargic. My past haunts me telephonically as I wisp in and out of daydreams, the rendering leaves time for such leisurely luxuries. I'd have to assume it's the friction or lack there of that would turn lovers to "brothers" but such assumptions leave me cold and yearning for something less familial. I ought to let it be a lesson in you scratch my back I'll scratch yours but this despondency leaves me itching for something more.  Maybe the novelty has worn off, maybe you only like me when you're drunk and lonely, maybe I've become too needy, but mostly I've turned to over analyzing instead of living in the glorious moment of now. Each new scene, each new experience as a life builds itself 3,000 miles away from what once was home.