free verse
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An oddly mild month January has been, warm like the head of a newborn child,the days brim with potential,flowing, yet tensile. If one was so inclined to break the laminar flow,to seep into the brine,the salty noveltyof new days and due dates and a fresh gaze,they may find it to overflow. Potential calcifies when its spilled. Collecting over
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a poem following the prompt shown.
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I would break through veins and veils to have your fingertips on mine,on me.I know every ridge and curlicue,where your nail beds meet their tips, and where my skin has reached up to receive them. If not for skin, pleasure would weep and trail so effusively out of me.Every cell and fibre knows no more than
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I bite in,raw, with fervour,it dribbles off my lips and through my fingers.I am unquenchable, insatiable, panting, my hunger, thirst, ripe as a summer’s peach,but it’s a summer’s love that begs to me,sticky on my skin, nestled in my neck. I want a love pure as a newbornand sinful as the dead.My teeth on yours,unable to quell desire.
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One day you’re 10, and you’re waking up to the wet wilderness, putting on your dirt streaked flip flops to pick wild raspberries for morning pancakes. The foam soles bend around the gravel road, and you can feel every single pebble like the princess and the pea except you’re the king, the king of this
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I could cry days for you,weeks,years.I could cry you a new calendar,a new generation,a new slice of time in the sky,salty enough,to compensate your sweetness,a place where’d you’d be the revered sovereignty,and would ban my tears for eternity,because you never cease to exist for me,as long as I can cry for you.
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You watch lovers hold hands,but you do not see the subtle thumb caress, the electricity between their shoulders, the stolen glances of knowing among two. You listen to someone speak of their person,seemingly over-the-top professions of love,but you do not hear the song in their head when this person is around,the bells and harmonies, the ringing and pulsating,the
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The ideaof men,of manhood,the way it tasted in my mouth,gaggingon my pitiful fortuned future,one where a manwith a hairy chest and no room in it for me,was what to desire,so I learned to choke back my own,believing a life without love,a throat full of thirst,was my white flag. So don’t tell me you always knew,because
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Does time work against you? Is it time that slowly devours your flesh, ages your skin, shrinks your brain? Is time the silent killer, the morbid pessimist, the reality check that you are far from indesctructible? Are you ok with that, an immovable force dictating you? -Saturn
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Your presence creates an hourglass of goodbyes,where our first embrace turns it over,and every second, every grain afterwards,brings us closer to the end.
Lashanda Forsberg 