If I was given a dime
every time I looked into your smoky gray eyes,
wishing you were the tac in my toe,
my Nubian panther in the night,
serenading me with the low growl
of your jungle madness,
I could buy you the key
to my emerald city.
Imagine we were two leaves
on a sycamore tree on the corner of State and Maine,
becoming one as we fall with the seasons.
I’ve never felt as alive as I do now
- except when I’m dying in your arms,
wrapped in your down blanket,
buried in your scent.
You are the raindrops blasting on my window pain
- a testament to the stormy nature of our relations,
but the calm always comes soon after the storm.
A love poem
sways to its own rhythm,
throwing caution to the wind
of desire, escalating
to something indefinable,
something uncompromising,
something real.
