in the beginning

nothing between us started conventionally.
maybe that’s why it stuck.

we found comfort in mutual rebellion
and grounding in the freedom
we gifted the other
to be exactly who we are.

there were no masks.
no trying too hard.

we just were.

and then,
we were
in love.

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destination: love

maybe I’ll never get to see
all the places my feet wish to wander through
maybe the oceans and plains I dream of visiting
will remain a mystery to my eyes
a vision only in my mind
but perhaps his two arms will become my world
and the scent on his neck home
it’s possible that his embrace
can become the safe place
I never thought I’d find again
and that life is enough of an adventure
if lived by his side
with a lot of love
and a side of laughter.

caution

I’ve learned to keep my thorns sharp,

even if I do happen to put some of them away ocassionally

You never know if this time I’ll need to use them

I build my walls and kick the ladder so he has to

climb and curse for me

I make him work and sweat for me, while giving only the bare minimum

a teaspoon of sugar just to keep him interested-

the sweetest honey comes from the Queen Bee

and now only the strong can manage to wrestle love

out of me.

 

this type of magic

tell me your Mondays are sleepy and saturated
with an unquenchable thirst for Sundays spent under the covers with me,
tell me you’ll dance in rainstorms when they come
and tell me you won’t forget
the mornings we’d stay in bed for hours and the walks we would take only for necessary supplies: croissants with whiskey in our coffee,
tell me you like that I’m just as good
at being bad as you are;
tell me my laughter has become
your favorite sound
and when you first open your eyes beside me, awaken my spine with a trail of kisses
and my heart with the sound of your voice near my ear
whispering “bom dia,” good morning in my native tongue,
as you bring me back to this moment, this life,
and out of the mediocre existence
my heart had for so long settled for.
Dance with me in the kitchen
to all the songs we have yet to call our own
and let me feed you, body and soul,
read you poetry while we lounge in the comfort of the four walls
and two arms I’ve turned into home,
and when the sun fills my eyes with pools of honey tell me I’m beautiful as if you have never seen me before and run your hands over my body to memorize every curve, every ridge, every scar…

If I were looking for just another someone
I would’ve settled long ago.

darling,
tell me we were made
for this type of magic.

this type of love.

just a boy

I’ve always been a fan of the fixer uppers,
maybe because for a while there
I thought of myself as one, or maybe
I was so broken that I thought I deserved the same,
some more jagged sharp edges to pierce my center,
another critical mind to judge me harshly,
or maybe I was just as shallow
in my simplistic demands for passion,
maybe just as dumb to think I could keep
fire separate from warmth;
hands separate from love…
a line drawn in the middle with an incredulous finger
when it became obvious he had no heart to gift back.

was that really a choice or just me giving in?

Now he calls me a girl
as if he hadn’t yet met the woman I’ve become
and I call him a boy
because that’s exactly
who he is.