Birthday Stars

There's a monster growling under my bed

but I lost interest in him ages ago

and now you're the only thought

occupying my mind in

the vanilla wallpaper darkness.

Late November clings to your

lashes and birthday stars

collide into the lark pond,

their orange flames resemble

romantic suicide attempts,

glowing near our neighborhood.

Violin strings mark your palms

and I stare as our hands brush

and snow appears in puffs on

the rooftops of old colonial homes.

5th Avenue was built for all

the drunken socialites but

you and I wander here because

we have nothing to lose,

buying flowers for 50 cents and

pointing at fireworks in

the freeway silver sky,

we're unusual, baby, yet alive.

Stumbling back, we chuckle

at weird jokes and Mozart

plays through the windows

as we settle down on the vintage sofa,

dozing off between sweet

metaphorical clouds of

smoke and Saturday commercials.

In my arms, you are more than 

a roommate and a friend;

a creature with Tennessee raw lips

and almond brown strands falling 

against the logo on my jacket,

your cheek half lit by 

the shadow in the corner.

I want you so bad, it hurts,

and I'm scared of this

phantom I've become;

needy and dangerous,

thirsting for maybes

as the painted sun

breaks through my reverie.

Lost in your purple charm

and millennium green eyes,

I can't remember

a time when we weren't

too close for comfort,

never warm enough in

our Antarctica-inspired universe.

And winter isn't a wonderland here

like they show on television, baby;

crisp and twinkling,

smelling of peppermint

and greeting cards, no.

It's just another opportunity to

miss you under chipped

china clouds and cynical raindrops.

It's an excuse to pretend

that my heart isn't merely

a messed-up organ and that

you're not just smiling to

be nice when the cursed

clock's hand hits twelve

because there's no one else

we can dive into like

a well-practiced lie.

I'm sick of wishing so hard,

I taste blood, so

just tell me this is more

than desire but less than love

so that I can stop imagining

Alaskan blue sheets tangled

around our ankles in

the hazelnut morning

and the slow descent

of your fingers along

my orange tree spine.

Author's Note

umm yeah..my first poem on this site, free-verse.

Reviews

[MirandaLogan]

It is beautiful. I love it.

"It's an excuse to pretend

that my heart isn't merely

a messed-up organ and that

you're not just smiling to

be nice when the cursed

clock's hand hits twelve

because there's no one else

we can dive into like

a well-practiced lie."

This is beautiful!

[Trevor Jay Bloodworth]

Vivid. The imagery and the wording was good.