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sunlight dancing on our skin

intertwined lazily under a central park tree

exchanging vibes, musical harmonies

pacing our lust, small doses

holding hands and gazes

adorned in the graces of his presence, touching faces

his fingertips slowly graze over my lips 
swollen from his kiss and a touch of cannabis

could a bliss be so simple?

we weave through the city

slowly, inconveniently, rebelliously

pestering pedestrians as we walk 
heavy with our hearts

staggering intoxicated with wanderlust 

of new york city and... us

who is this man?
who is this MAN -- my inner teenager demands
who is this man who envelops my entire physical being with his callous hands 
and his tattooed frame?

who is this man that i so willingly gave access to my time and affection
my vulnerability and my pain?

what does his soul taste like?

when will i step on a landmine in his mind  --

what does his anger look like?

what parts is he, and what parts are his tributes?

what parts are us, and what parts are quiet desperations?

and i wonder

could he ever love me inbetween my lines of ethereal/juvenile

... could anyone?

His love

Kind of a lame and cheesy sentimental poem, but hell, i was feelin it.

Maybe his love isn’t a run-to-the-other-side-of-the-street-defying-death-in-a-New-York-City-traffic-jam-for-one-last-kiss kinda love

And it definitely isn’t a come-home-late-from-work-to-find-him-running-me-a-bath-adorned-with-candles-and-rose-petals kinda love

And it isn't a whisk-a-curl-from-my-hair-away-from-my-face-on-a-chilly-autumn-evening-only-to-linger-his-gaze-deeply-on-me-and-then-kiss-me kinda love.

But.

His love was a kiss-me-on-my-forehead-when-I-was-spewing-snot-and-sneezing-germs kinda love.

A holding-me-silently-as-I-braced-for-sadness-to-wash-over-me kinda love.

A laughing-politely-at-my-childlike-squealing-and-loud-antics kinda love.

A pausing-the-movie-playing-on-my-laptop-for-a-making-out-break kinda love.

And it was enough.

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My grandmother mentioned
In passing
The softness of her late teenage son's hair
My mother's brother
Casually.

And I ponder on their pain
And their humanity
And the rawness I did not see them experience.
Somewhere between dinner and dessert
I ache to look at them and say:
"You brought me here. How can I make you happier? How can I ease the sorrow of your memories?"

But I fear the question is laughable
Or irrelevant
Or too late
So I don't say anything.

And I panic about the time.

the straight path

if you were so perfect
if you were so simple
if there is a straight path
why do i keep tripping
why do i find dead end streets
boulders in my way
forcing me to twist my body into painful contours to fit around you
and through you.

if you were so perfect
and you were so timeless
why do your henchmen stutter
and why do their hearts race
and their temples drip sweat
when they have to decide
whether to preserve you
or risk chipping away at your legitimacy

hearts wrench pain
pleasing and fearing you
some born into
fate decided, before words spoken