Cold nights

Exhaling the cold, I look out my window through the thin sheets that wrap around my head. The air is still and wet. I can hear muni cutting through the night turned violet by the orange street lights. The rains continue to poor and thrash the magnolia tree against my window. I drift into sleep. I awake at dawn to the sun gently opening my eyes. My roommate’s cat sits in the black leather armchair, peering out the window decorated with last night’s rain.

Oh Sylvia

“There is no reason for the sudden terror, the feeling of condemnation, except that circumstances all mirror the inner doubt, the inner fear.” Sylvia Plath

foolish

I want to drift over you like rain that never beads yet makes your skin wet and shine under the light; to kiss your neck under wine spilt sheets and smell you, as if to inhale what makes you beautiful and my heart ache when you are not near. I walk the crowded streets - hunted by loneliness - the faces pass. I never thought that selfishness would screen beauty from my eyes. Yet, I am buried in myself all the while thinking of you. Not of my own skin, I continue to stare at the street lamp as orange light fills the blue night sky, my eyes, and my breath in clouds of early spring. You were everything for a moment; warming me in the night, guiding me home. Your eyes, I used to swim in them. Cry to me my darling, shed me your tears so that I can feel your beauty on my shoulder; soaking into my shirt and leaving salt crystals of your liquid eyes. Press your lips to mine; perchance I could speak as gracefully as you.