wrote him a poem.

so last night i write him a poem.

when the hardwood floors were silent and the sun's high began to fall i sat next to dying fire on a marble floor in my black briefs and white t.

i stared at him attempting to kidnap his thoughts and hold them captive on this blank sheet in front of me.
but he kept those thoughts locked and his eyes on the floor that lay four feet in front of him.

the struggle for power between the scorched wood in the fireplace and the raw air that crept under the door ended when the last flash of an orange-red fire vanished.
the heat was gone.

we sat there, cold.
my camera and my pen occupying my hands and this thre-quarters naked man occupying my mind.
i took the picture.
i sat down my camera and formed a death grip on the pen as if for dear life.
and i began to write:

-----
i’m trying to do that other shit with you
the type of shit we daydream about during commercial and cigarette breaks
there will be no reruns this time
just original thoughts and new places to kiss you
places that have gone undiscovered
and I want to be that breath that never made it to your lungs
so this time when you exhale it’ll be slow and forever
i want to become familiar with the hairs on the back of your neck so when they tickle my lips I’ll laugh
i’m done with just kicking it too
i want to picnic inside by fireplaces on days when it rains
so the sunshine will be never be missed
and dance between bites of lumpia and glasses of grapefruit
I want to lose you between the sheet and discover you all over again
this time starting at your toes
taking your heel into my palms
so your sole’s in my hand
and whisper
‘you alright?’
-----

and one day, when the furniture arrives and we're sitting comfortable and warm on leathers and suedes i'll read it to him, and watch his eyes go from the fallen moon to me.

i folded the poem and slipped it between books on the shelf.
baldwin and hughes.
how appropriate, i thought.

so last night i wrote him a poem.