M.
[poem]
Like a pressed flower
you fold me in your arms
my cheeks burns from the warmth
your heart is the sun
rising, falling with every breath
waves that tickles, an ocean breeze
so gentle
that my tears fall
floating petals caught by the hand
musk mingles with crushed yellow blooms
sea-salt stings your tongue
drowning, drowning in your scent
and I am drunk
with the thought
that i am pressed into your arms
forever
I'm pretty horrible at keeping up with emails. on my PC, I have emails from 1998, copied several times over in an old version of Eudora. even at work, my inbox has over 900 emails, which I haven’t gotten around to sorting and filing. unless it’s junk, I hate hitting the delete button and wiping away the email. if all my emails were printed out (and I used to print them all when I first used email way back when), I’d have rooms full of paper scraps. I keep almost every letter I receive, every bit of correspondence from friends and family. I collect postcards sent to me from around the world, from friends and acquaintances that are kind enough to indulge me. at home, I get these lovely emails from friends and even photos too. I read them and then I think I'll write a nice long email back later, probably before I go to bed. of course, I surf the net and visit blogs and then the email melts away in my slumbering dreams.
many weeks ago, M. writes me several times without one reply from me. finally, he writes back and thinks maybe I don’t reply because I'm in love. I wish I was in love, because it would be a lot better than this strange pining I have for this something, someone, untouchable. because I had fallen in love with M. a long time ago, I dug around my old files to find this poem I wrote, shortly after I returned from my trip to San Francisco. I remember standing in Sigmund Samuel library at school writing emails using Pine mail, when I suddenly stopped typing and grabbed my notebook. I finished this poem, feeling this irrational pining for him, knowing that he was untouchable, unreachable. I was happy and sad all at once.
I feel a little guilty for not being reachable, for being so silent. and so for M., here’s your old poem I wrote so many years ago, written from a naïve hope that, like my emails, I can’t throw away nor reply back.
Like a pressed flower
you fold me in your arms
my cheeks burns from the warmth
your heart is the sun
rising, falling with every breath
waves that tickles, an ocean breeze
so gentle
that my tears fall
floating petals caught by the hand
musk mingles with crushed yellow blooms
sea-salt stings your tongue
drowning, drowning in your scent
and I am drunk
with the thought
that i am pressed into your arms
forever
I'm pretty horrible at keeping up with emails. on my PC, I have emails from 1998, copied several times over in an old version of Eudora. even at work, my inbox has over 900 emails, which I haven’t gotten around to sorting and filing. unless it’s junk, I hate hitting the delete button and wiping away the email. if all my emails were printed out (and I used to print them all when I first used email way back when), I’d have rooms full of paper scraps. I keep almost every letter I receive, every bit of correspondence from friends and family. I collect postcards sent to me from around the world, from friends and acquaintances that are kind enough to indulge me. at home, I get these lovely emails from friends and even photos too. I read them and then I think I'll write a nice long email back later, probably before I go to bed. of course, I surf the net and visit blogs and then the email melts away in my slumbering dreams.
many weeks ago, M. writes me several times without one reply from me. finally, he writes back and thinks maybe I don’t reply because I'm in love. I wish I was in love, because it would be a lot better than this strange pining I have for this something, someone, untouchable. because I had fallen in love with M. a long time ago, I dug around my old files to find this poem I wrote, shortly after I returned from my trip to San Francisco. I remember standing in Sigmund Samuel library at school writing emails using Pine mail, when I suddenly stopped typing and grabbed my notebook. I finished this poem, feeling this irrational pining for him, knowing that he was untouchable, unreachable. I was happy and sad all at once.
I feel a little guilty for not being reachable, for being so silent. and so for M., here’s your old poem I wrote so many years ago, written from a naïve hope that, like my emails, I can’t throw away nor reply back.
posted by joe at 9:29 PM
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