This is the article that I post where I'm taking a big chance, because I am going to be tackling one of those weird things that make us human that not many people are very open about. (There is also the issue that there are several people out there who I would be mortified to have read this, but I'm going to take that chance anyways.) But let's face it: everyone at one point or another has lusted after someone else.
I had just got done with one of those weird episodes of panting after someone one quite possibly was never going to have anyways, more abruptly than usual because the object of my affections was skipping state. It's sad, but in this case, I realize that it is better that it happens that way, or at least, that's what I'm trying to tell myself. It was a bad case: one where you get crazy dreams that wake you up in the night, and you are acutely aware of the fact that you are sleeping alone, that make you you wish you hadn't woken up because of how wonderful everything was going inside your sub-conscience, and that make you realize how very hopeless everything in reality is shaping up to be.It was one where you'd find yourself drifting off into space, picturing the many ways how an encounter between one and one's intended could go. In the case of a poet, like me, it often inspires a veritable slough of bad poetry (okay, in my defense, I'm a damn good writer, so they aren't that bad).
You must understand too, that I am one who does not ever find excessive emotions appealing or a source of strength. I have been accused of being cold, of being an ice queen, and it is because I view sappy, mushy-gushy feelings as a way of being vulnerable. I have struggled on many occasion with letting myself be vulnerable. Even with the object of my affections those few months, I did not let myself appear what I would consider to be weak. In this poem, I open up my weaker, more emotional side, in hopes that I can learn to be warmer.
Heat
It's hot out.
It feels like a sauna out on the street, though there are
no old people here, not like at the spa - they do love to flock there.
I'm near-panting, hosing down the roses, and the water comes off,
aromatic steam that perfumes the air with an amatory scent.
I would really love to jump in a pool, crystalline and cool and--
there, I see you walking.
I'm amazed at your attire, your choice of pants: black shorts.
I know you are from the South; you've been acclimated to warmer places,
but how are you comfortable?
And then I feel the heat of my body's response, and, oh dear God,
I am all the more fevered.
Hot, hot, hot, and I'm sweating.
How those shorts fall along all the right places, trailing over your sinew,
detailing the lean lines beneath.
I'd love to strip them off of you, and have you here,
peeling off my tank top that sticks and sticks like Saran Wrap
to my sun-kissed skin, smelling of steaming rose petals.
And I dream of you, drawing the pine green fabric over my brow,
laden heavy with perspiration,
to have you gaze on me with dark, smokey intent.
All the curses, all the blessings, everything I could say to you,
they stay bubbling in my larynx,
champagne, my preferred poison on a swelter-day
(Sirius, you beautiful orb, you bring such odd luck with your humid rising).
I curse your power over me, for it is likely that you,
you who bring these scathing dreams to me,
will have such an intent, but not for shy, timid me.
Still, I can hope that one of these dog days,
you'll draw me close to share your heat,
draw me to your hard, hot chest and give me
one
frenzied
kiss.
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