Sometimes, @just-melting-blog - Tumblr Blog

MOVING MY BLOGZ

hi if any of my followers are still active and want to read things from me, i made/updated a new blog @ justmelting.tumblr.com and will be deleting this one promptly.

how we slept in summer

It is two in the morning and we are sweating, lying On separate mattresses in the same room.

You are talking in intervals, like clockwork, About classwork and the working class.

It is June and you are still kissing me. Your spit still tastes salty.

This time of year you are always thirsty, And you can never sleep.

I am stubborn like September heat, But you are an Indian summer,

And you mumble like thunder, But I've seen hurricanes,

And I've seen the way you glance at me. It feels exhausted, heavy like humidity.

But my temples still sweat raindrops on your chest. And Florida weather makes things stick, like palms.

Southern summers always had a way of lasting too long. And I have a way of wishing for winter in the dead of spring,

Because I'm not used to having the in-between. I was raised on all or nothing.

And we can push the beds back together, But it's not the same thing,

Because you need space like you need seasons, Closed doors, Middlesex County, and that city.

And right now I just need some sleep, To be lying still, bodies apart, but touching.

#poem #poetry #summer #the last poem i will write about you

tylerknott

Does love need love back? Can we love without craving its breath on our necks?

Daily Haiku on Love by Tyler Knott Gregson (via tylerknott)

Melt Quick

Say it slow so I can hear the difference, Until certain words remind me of you,

And family secrets, and hand-drawn maps of a place That feels significant because of its shape.

The shape you take between the bed and me. I'm in between awake and asleep and the sound of you breathing,

Steady with the sounds of things I try to ignore, like Heat, and how mornings are heavy.

I'm hung up on humidity, dyed blonde hair, and southern cities. But we're all about timing, and defining home

By my sense of direction in the dark. I'm associating locations with how slow a lover's limbs shift, words slip

Or if the weather fits, because I cover things up Like snow, and

Hold breaths close like winter does to ice, and nights Are long-winded. And we are both long-limbed,

Bare-skinned, pink in the morning, under off-white sheets. But early hours feel fleeting, and sweet things melt quick.

My own body often reminds me of her.

It must be a kind of muscle memory,

because my hands sometimes remember the taste of sweaty smoke,

and that fire inevitably burning at her fingertips.

#poem #poetry #creative writing #its been a while #i need to write but i dont know how

On Driving to a House Party (revised)

I am already drunk enough for the both of us,

And sitting in the passenger’s seat,

Admiring the way changing gears

Creates an invisible rocking chair.

I sway back and forth to the pull.

A worn-thin strap

Rappels down your bare arm.

I wonder if your legs are shaved ,

And if it’ll matter.

You exhale milky smoke and a sweet voice,

Making music from the chatter in the backseat.

Round goose bumps crop up along your thighs,

Which look a little plumper than I’m used to,

But I think I like that in a girl—

Like something to hold onto.

You always turn the volume too loud,

Blasting what does not seem like English:

Some woman crying out behind a violin arrangement,

Her voice high, airy, layered.

Makes you sing with eyes shut tight,

Your head shake from side to side,

Like it’s the saddest thing you’ve ever heard.

But as I sit like a stranger,

Watching you feel this,

It makes me wonder what exactly I am missing.

#poem #poetry #creative writing

Hot Body in June, (or Look I Tried to Write a Sonnet)

Your hands were bold and curious creatures—

Mine told riddles to the hem of your skirt.

And once, my fingers, drunk with confidence,

Trembled on your parted lips a while.

Your mouth: wide like a vulture’s, but timid,

Hovered too high over my warm body.

There were sweaty bed sheets and cicadas,

Mimicking the sound of the summer heat.

And your salted beach-legs, deeply browned by

Florida’s blazing sun, matched the movement

Of those bugs like a summer symphony,

Rising and falling with the humid winds.

Still, nothing ever beats the sweet feeling of skin

On skin, alcoholic sweat beads

Dangled from the tip of your nose, hidden

Between hip bones, maneuvered between chests.

But winter’s shed that easy body, made

It simple to forget June’s drunken flame.

#poem #sonnet #creative writing #poetry

grammatolatry

I relearn how to press my body against other bodies. My slick flesh like scales, like fish tail, hums across men’s spines during autumn afternoons. I teach my mouth words like sunshine, cupcake. The mouth, once a fist, now can’t help but smile when it wags out these glittery promises. My legs remember how to braid themselves in with other legs, hairy and sometimes freckled, that like the gloss of my calves.

Jenny Sadre-Orafai, Other Bodies (via comathon)

clover91-blog

May I?

May I enter your lungs diffuse into your heartbeats travel through your veins make love to your anatomy feel the electricity of neurons travel down your spinal chord live in your frontal lobe so you will never forget me?

xvvxvvy

pbrbateson

chicago

Getting Wet @ a Bus Stop

Everyone sits, feet dangling above puddles of old rain,

And you stroll up, choosing to stand.

Indifferent, brunette locks,

Jawline like a bear trap,

And two soft, copper snake-rings

Wrapped tight ‘round your thin fingers.

The stone dead wall politely offers its surface.

Your back reacts accordingly,

Brick and bone fusing for a moment.

I think I am gawking at this point, because I hear some man

With a rain stained face and soggy dress shoes

Asking me to stop, or

Whether the city bus stops here before seven.

Seven, I nod,

Forgetting how to speak.

Then, out the corner of my eye,

Those snakes rise from a worn, jean pocket.

And as your fingers stretch to kiss

The top of your jacket zipper,

A glint from the rings

Burns a hole through my skin,

Though it could’ve been your stare.

The way you craned your neck my way,

Searching for headlights in the rain,

But instead, finding my body

Pretending not to notice yours.

The sound of thick rubber on wet asphalt

hisses too soon,

And, looking down, I notice your feet walk my way.

But you just slide on past me,

Like a dirty whisper.

#(please dont take the title srlsy)#poem #poetry #creative writing

(revised) Driving Late Means Smoking That Last Spliff

My window’s stuck open, just cracked enough

To whistle when the car speeds up.

I pull the last rolling paper from its cardboard home,

And think,

I haven’t smoked like this since Chicago,

And the thought catches me—

The image seeps in, hazy,

And I lose myself to some frozen night

That we stood tall with The L,

Wooden planks shivering beneath us.

I watched as she pushed nicotine from her lips,

And the smoke waded out into the city skyline,

Disbanded right in front of me.

We heard the train before we saw it,

Tiny metal screams that only ceased when the doors exhaled,

Letting crack-heads and business women

Slip right past each other.

Wicker Park was about ten minutes by subway,

Enough time for a music-man

To ask if we could hear his heartbeat

Strung through a CD player and some curse words.

Every other passenger just stared at my hands,

Clutched onto the nape of her neck

And sliding,

Like her skin slid from the sheets

Every morning-after.

And that hollow bedroom mocked us

With echoic sounds of loud fucking

On a silent, winter night.

The whole city seemed a hiatus

In the form of that girl.

She never slowed down,

Even had the ink to remind her,

But was the type that could write you a love song,

And never once sing it.

Our evenings were about lung capacity,

How much smoke it took to forget about the room

Left in our brains from spending too little time

In the same town, always moving.

And as we burned through sunset

After sunset, clouded the place with wine stains

And things I meant to remember,

The fume burnt out,

Like forgetting that you still have a half-smoked joint

Stuck between your stoned fingers.

I think that most things are left unfinished,

And toss the whole spliff from the moving car,

Hoping some foreign drifter might find it in the morning.

#poem #poetry #creative writing #i think this ones a lot better than the other #eh?#anyweys

On Driving to a House Party, Cigarettes, Hazy Chicago Flashbacks

I am already drunk enough for the both of us,

And sitting in the passenger’s seat,

Admiring the way changing gears

Creates and invisible rocking chair.

And I sway back and forth to the pull.

A worn-thin strap

Rappels down your bare arm.

I wonder if your legs are shaved

And if it’ll matter.

Glowing heavy in the dark, you offer me a light.

I haven’t smoked like this since Chicago

And the thought catches me—

The image seeps in, hazy,

Just like each frozen night

That we stood tall on wooden structures,

Made beautiful by the disintegration

Of that girl’s hollow breath into the city skyline.

We heard the train before we saw it,

Tiny metal screams that only ceased when the doors exhaled,

Letting crack-heads and business women

Slip right on through.

Wicker Park was about ten minutes by subway,

But that still left time for a black man

To ask if we’d feel for his pulse,

Strung though a CD player and some curse words.

I wore all her winter coats,

Stained them with wine and the way my hands

Caught hers in the side pocket.

Evenings were about lung capacity,

Loud fucking in a quiet apartment,

And, once, how steam rose from the sheets,

her slender body.

I think that most things are left unfinished,

And toss a whole cigarette from the moving car,

Hoping some foreign drifter will find it in the morning.

#this is not nearly done like by any means #poem #poetry #creative writing

I have scars on my hands from touching certain people.

#Salinger

I should have posted this to your Inbox.

I dont even know what it's like to not miss you,

if I'm making any sense.

It's because you remind me of someone else,

and im more in love with her than a good friend should be,

but less than a lover would.

#little things #poem #creative writing #poetry

Jackie, i love you. I love you, i love you.

I love you. I could write you poems forever, Kens.

Shy

I rode by your place of work, today

With my gears set too low

So that my legs could hang lazy.

But I still looked like an idiot who didn’t know how to ride a bike.

I was searching for one excuse

To walk into that fluorescent, twenty-four hour café:

Breathless lungful, dithering bladder,

Chapped and peeling cracks for lips.

Impractical gestures for idealistic affairs.

I should have plopped myself down on the plastic seat covers.

And maybe you’d have for asked my order,

Flashing an infamous, dented smile

Like you do with every stranger that walks in the place.

I would have pointed to your body

And said that I want you raw on innocent sheets,

My bed like a dinner plate.

I could have walked out of there a new soldier,

Carrying you, as

Each person applauds like they wouldn’t kill

To be cradled.

I doubted you were even working, though.

I rode on, feeling foolish for slowing,

And letting the night’s wind whip me for such diffidence.

#searching for a better title #poem #poetry #creative writing

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