There was once a young man with beautiful eyes,
when I look into them they tend to mesmerize.
Thus: I’m now inspired to write him poems;
feelings running as deep as catacombs.
The way he moves me always takes me by surprise.
There was once a young man with beautiful eyes,
when I look into them they tend to mesmerize.
Thus: I’m now inspired to write him poems;
feelings running as deep as catacombs.
The way he moves me always takes me by surprise.
and after you’re fast asleep
and I’m still awake
and trying not to wake you
I place my ear to your bare chest
listen to the soft pitter-patting
take your hand and place it in mine.
my lips move in the silence
shape and round the letters and vowels
three dangerous words that I daren’t say aloud.
in medical terms: the heart
a muscle to pump blood
through the body.
in romantic terms: the heart
an ever-expanding vessel to
give away.
it can bleed, shatter, stop, quicken:
but it has the same visceral functions
because you’re living in all four chambers.
and in tonight’s darkened afterglow
my fingers interlacing with your slack ones.
my head is nestled against you
yes, it feels too right.
I’m wondering about this invariable
risk of this razor-sharp reality:
of you and me.
my eyelids flutter and my body trembles
in the quietest of pleas.
There was once a young man named Vince;
my feelings for him I can’t mince.
He always knew the right things to say,
prompting me to always want to stay.
Heart drawn together in a cinch.
There was once a young man from Frisco
who always made my heart race just so.
“I now know the reason why,” I sighed,
“when I look at you, I’m starry eyed.”
Amorously caught in an undertow.
There was once a young man named Vince,
to whom she texted naughty hints.
Their desire was insatiable,
thus not touching—so incapable!
Fogging up his car windows’ tints.
There was once a young man named Pilot,
whose mind and looks I like, I admit.
He’s a guy with a ton of swagger
and my feelings for him won’t stagger.
Hearts remain mutually a-lit.
A lonely Amtrak train horn blares as I shiver, tucking my thick gray peacoat around my body. Another two hour class has passed and I fish my white earbuds out of my pocket, plugging it into my iPhone as my high top Converse kicks follow the familiar path home. Tonight is strange, the misty gray fog is so thick that I can’t see ten feet ahead of me. It turns the campus, usually so mundane, into a place of deep mystery, something strange and almost mystical.
As I walk, it feels like I’m the only one out tonight. Even the colors seem off—the world has turned dense and tinged with dark silver. The streetlights are artificial orange suns, its rays attempting to permeate the air and casting no shadows. My breath comes out in small puffs. Everything is still.
I have a paper to write, then I’ll go to bed, I tell myself, as I rock slightly on the edge of the curb, looking out for incoming cars so I can safely jaywalk to my apartment complex, looming like a lone harbor. Even the cars seem different tonight, the headlights beaming weakly and going slower than usual.
I reach up and release my hair from its bun, shaking the long dark locks loose. I blink in surprise at the fog droplets that have collected in the strands. As I walk, I shimmy my shoulders and mouth the words to a particularly catchy song that randomly shuffled on.
“Rock like a rock star, got me feelin’ like a superstar,” I sing silently, reaching my hands up to tousle my already messy hair. I throw in some head nods, positively grooving. Obviously, I think I’m cool.
It is then I notice the guy in the hoodie. He is standing near a streetlamp, his dark silhouette lined in the strange orange light, making him look like a some kind of creature of legend. Clad in shorts, his hood is up, and he holds a lacrosse stick as he stares at me, mouth slightly agape, at this diminutive girl walking through the thick fog on her way back home, dancing and silently singing.
Our eyes meet.
And I toss my hair back and ask him silently, “Rock like a rock star? Got me feelin’ like a superstar?”
There was once a young man named Pilot,
Whom I liked way more than just a bit.
He’s hella cool and spunky
and spins tracks so funky,
No wonder we’re such a great fit!
There was once a young man named Vince Ng,
who was able to make my heart sing.
We met in a strange way,
but I’m happy to say
It’s a most wondrous and cosmic thing.
There was once a young man named Vince,
who met a girl and ever since,
she and him were oh-so-cute
that no one dared to refute.
Together they made haters wince.
