love poem i (the disease)
i wish i could erase you,
blur the edges,
pull hair away by the fistful
and let it go into the wind.
i would wash your old t-shirts,
and rid them of your smell,
use them to wash my windows
or sop up dog pee
instead of ruining a towel.
but somehow i always come back to this place,
your blue eyes probing into me from a photograph
stashed between my books.
i even tried to convince myself that i could hide you there,
that my fingers would forget to grasp for you in the little crack
when they grow weary of air
and prefer the familiarity of a flat and lifeless gaze.
love poem ii (brown)
november brown, the same color as your hair,
the color of us meeting,
when you made fun of my small hands
and secret love of nineties pop
that i confessed once i grew to trust you.
i tried not to think of you
as i walked home from the bus stop,
or bought chewing gum at the drug store,
or heard your favorite band on the radio,
as unlikely as that was, with their being obscure.
it disappointed me to learn to feel.
somehow, i'd half expected to be above romance,
never thought myself of a victim of words falling out awkwardly,
or eyes i had to keep averted to quiet the brightness.
and though i wished it otherwise,
i'm glad that you were the first person whose image kept me awake at night,
turning in my sheets
as it loomed in the inches above me like a haunting.
Forgive me for going e.e. cummings with the lowercase letters. I felt sort of goofy capitalizing the "I's" in poems like these.