Knock Knock Click Squeak iloveyou Clap

Our love was made in the afternoons since
we had school
before

and could only smile and touch
in passing
notebooks and glances

notebooks and glances in hallways
and separate dinners with separate separated parents after,
after dusk came

and I rode my bike back,
racing against Ma's impatience and her readytocrescendo temper
post-sunset.


And this one afternoon
before
we ever kissed on the lips

but after
we had lay in the center of your impoverished
living room,

harmonizing "feelin' groovy..."
for hours without a clock in the house,
I had left

while it was still bright.
We exchanged our shy goodbyes (the omnipotence of our
mutual infatuation realized),

and before I stepped from but after you had closed your green door,
I hesitantly knocked twice, put my ear to the other side of your soft steps,
heard the deadlock click in

the knob and hinges squeak open, and said feverishly
"iloveyou"
and clapped the door shut myself

with a grin that could light the heavens a hundred times over.

Sunflowers and Stars

I used to go with a girl
that saw Sunflowers in my eyes.
In their iridescence, she could focus on the "hazels and dots."

The first time she wore a summer-nothing,
I saw Constellations in her beauty marks.
"Little Dipperish for your arm and fair chest," I marveled.

A Dusk Raining

Just as the rain may emerge
from a drizzle and static to a
PouringDown and LightningStreaking,
I look on with passivity and a bitten lip
as your sniveling and gaze become
BurstsandPops of SobsandTears.

And we know so well,
so well, it is, that we do know this,
that things like this cannot be recorded.
Things intense and paining.
Too intense and Too
paining.

And in spite of me,
and all the woe I've come to cause,
we know so well, so well--
it is--that I know,
I know how much it
hurts.

Waves away waving to us, but to no promising avail.

The shoreline is the most honest edge,
its messages written innocently by children and lovers,
cruelly washed away by the incessant insistence
of the calming, coming wave.

The calming, coming wave,
running feet from feet away, trickling down and calming
as it comes closer to us, to we--the naive--ignorantly caressing
those massaged messages of ours smoothly away.

And as we walk into wading,
waiting to die with rocks in our pockets,
we think of only "why?" and so end the poem one expected line short.

You and I

You and I paralleled our onlysomanys and
___perpendiculated our otherwises.

But I was no pretention-intention
bound to the position of an antithetical-you.

And though differented and separate, your fingers and my
fingers decided to mingle and caress, and weave like they do

and now no words are needed. For so long,
hatingandhatingand hating until, of course, you and I became we.