PostPoems Be Artistic. Be Creative. Be Inspired!

He is sweetness and smiles,

Yet all the world can pass him by as he cleans the dirt from his fingernail.

The smoke curls from his open lips,

A sweet kiss of destructive beauty seeping up into the green sunlight.

Cheap liquor and that naked picture of you beneath his pillow,

He loves you.

It  is a love of passing tides and inconstant lights,

Aching quietly,

Dangerously.

He waxes and wanes into you beneath bricks and bedsheets,

His fingers drawing incomplete circles on your left arm.

They leave the impression of a ghost that cannot be caught, cannot be found,

Cannot be satisfied or purged.

Melting slowly in his loose arms,

You know he never longed to hold you close if only for the fear of losing you.

And as you slip away into the faded carpet he looks down at you,

His smile silent and ancient,

All-knowing and barely grieving.

His love is an illness you can never cure.

He is a cancer that has slept in your heart for many years

And now grows between your walls of flesh.

Even as you write your final eulogy, even as you carve your name on your grave,

You can see his headstone next to yours,

A fitting place to make love one last time.

Your homage to a feeling never held and never kept,

A  kiss on the hand fit for a distant king,

All the prayers in the world could never tear you away from your own sweet  Jesus,

A poor carpenter from a little town skilled in building

And more than skilled in tearing apart.