I met you when we were still nameless.
Voices echoed
in the psychedelic tunnel,
recognized for graffiti and perfect acoustics.
We clapped our hands and lit cigarettes,
smiling shyly.
I wanted you.
Syd Barrett died for a moment and we
poured libations to the rock gods
from our mouths, but
we needed to learn each other, trade
something to hold onto,
in that way not so different from stray cats
rubbing whiskers.
Your mouth tasted like home
in a strange place.
Yet,
nothing happened after that. Blame
impulsive romance; hesitation.
If only you believed me, then
in how much I loved
the vibrations of your voice or
the soft curl of your mouth;
if only you knew how much
those things could be missed.
"Oh ye of little faith
why did you doubt?"
Now that we are here,
would you
trust each and every
kiss on your naked shoulder,
winding my fingers in your hair;
trust that I need to be closer to you now
than skin will allow --
enough to substitute
for how it should have been
such a long time ago.
Author notes
freshman orientation at the university of massachusetts.
Please tell me what you think
Comments
-
i think this to be your best.
i really don't know what to say to it other than that. it fills my mood for reading a nice and hearty poem via you.
j -
My cynical romantic, you have a deep inner power that you are constantly suprised by. Occasionally, you try, I think, to be to different with your images for the images to support. You verge on dada. There is a flow and rhythmn to your work that I think is central to how well your poetry hangs together. Pay attention to it and trust your inner sense.
I love the opening line. I would have used been instead of begun in the next to last line. Read this out loud. See if you agree. Tell me later how well it speaks to the party intended
Love, Tom B.
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