My Oyster, My Slate

I’m giving back what you’ve given me,
The weight of your love is just too heavy.
I’m suffocating in this comfort you provide,
It’s my oyster! And my adventures, when I decide!

Things were rosy-darling-sweet,
Months went by, I had felt complete.
I sang to you of love and bliss,
Fell heels over head, sealed with a kiss.

But my wings are clipped by your own hand,
The year has flown away, the timer’s full of sand.
And I dream outside that garden gate,
I leave you now, to clean my slate.

Which Side of Time?

When I’m with you,
I feel warmth, or comfort.
I am a time bomb.
You keep me dormant.

When I’m with you,
High walls fence me in.
I am a rogue charge.
You keep me grounded.

But I love to hate those walls,
I learn to stand up tall,
And peer over,
Longing for,
The other
Side.

----------

Time,
To reconcile,
I say to the mirror.
And I summon my gall,
(whatever that really is)
And I tell you “we need to talk”.

The Words!

When it rains on my windowsill,
I cannot help but watch,
The glassy drops splatter.
Greedily, I watch their ecstasy.

Because I can’t get enough,
Of that slither-up-the-spine,
Burst of nervous bliss,
That sustains me.

And the words!
The moist, succulent plums,
And slick, pink conch depths-
Of our words. I could die.

So, I wait.
Not quite patiently,
For a time when our words,
Will reenact my raindrops.

Milk Pale

I find myself alone,
Without somewhere to be,
And I get stuck,
With these eyes,
That won’t stop crying.

They fill and fill,
So I empty them,
And they fill again,
Like a fertile cow,
Producing pail,
After pail,
Of warm milk.

Except these tears,
Aren’t comforting,
The way warm milk is.
They come because,
I’ve found myself unaided,
And I am uneasy,
Together with my psyche.

I need to be on my own,
The way the cow needs,
To release her milk,
But the tears,
Have no place here.

The cries fill my pail.
I skim off the top:
Condensed aching.
So I pasteurize my loneliness,
And swallow my tears, once more.

I want to tell him,
That I need real solitude.
But how can I explain,
That I have come unglued?

This pail keeps filling,
While I knowingly ask,
For a new set of pails,
To fill.

Aroma of Mistake

I inhale deeply the dense aroma of mistake.
It ignites my mouth, and my thirst is awake.

Like an ivy, it binds me,
I’ve been stymied.

Sweaty palms will incriminate,
As my clammy goose bumps congregate.

My conscience waits uneasily in the scale for my move.