Assorted Love Poems

Poems.  They're about love a lot.  Some of my writing is no exception.  If you want to check out a recent prompt about the topic, click here.  Anyhow, as that post said, I was looking through some old notebooks and found a few poems (or more accurately pieces) on the subject and wanted to post them up because I know at least one person who would really like them!

Falling

It's not that I'm falling for you;
it's just that I kinda maybe probably really sorta sorely want to.
I want to fall like a rock through the sky,
a bird who's forgotten how to fly
because it's been a long time
since I've heard the wind's song chime
so loud and strong within one such sitting
and, girl, you're like Charlie Sheen: duh, winning
at every aspect, but if I had to come clean
I'd say my grasp on firm ground began to ween
that first moment the waves of your voice lapped at my ears.
Such a pleasant sound which assuaged my fears,
my worries at donning a teacher's belt that first day
and more or less stumbling my first lesson away.
Yet I know beyond the beat of my heart
that I wanted to impress you with my art,
for far and away you were a wonder to meet
as, instead of ground, I found falling at my feet.
So it's not that I'm falling for you;
it's that I kinda maybe probably really sorta sorely want to.

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Details

As a poet, I know I'm supposed to write about love like
I have a patent on it - like only I understand the plans
filed in that patent office just above your 6th rib. Like
I know so much more about love because, after all,
that's why I write poetry, right?
Because I know what love is like
but I've lost it.

Listen, the only time I've
tasted what love was like was when it
slipped between our lips
during that sudden first kiss, when
it rested on her neck - I could taste
it for just a moment then.
The only time I've seen
love was when it waved its way
and framed her face - I could've sworn
I saw it even in the night and half light
coming from a silent alarm set to break our reverie.
And I only felt
it when she fell into my arms
for the first time -
felt it when my fingers sifted
past strands of hair, to brush
them back and clear her ears.

See - poetry, like love,
exists in the details, so
the only reason I can even begin
to know what love is like
is because I've paid attention
to the details. Like
the way she ties her shoes -
two bows crossed in two loops
and it's beautiful - the details
are all that I remember.
Like how she would tell me
to stop thinking when we danced
because thoughts interfere
with my feet and somehow
muddle the beat. Like
the way we'd walk
but couldn't stop
music from running away
with our feet, like
the way she'd smile, say
"yeah, yeah!" when
something caught her eye
and I loved
the way her hazel
eyes gathered gold
in flecks and reflected
my questions with rich
intelligence. I liked
the way she'd inspire this poetry
in me - this is
an attempt to capture the swish
of her hips on dance floors or
the feel of fingers intertwined
with mine or the warmth
of an embrace or the feel
of her shoulders in my frame.

Poetry is she
and this
is an attempt
to convey that.

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She Is

She is like air.
Light, playful, there.
Almost unnoticed,
until she's noticed.
Then, she's hard to forget.
Hard to forget that I breathe her in when
I lack energy - she
could set a ship's course,
make the seas rage,
uproot trees, scatter debris
and flood the land, but
she doesn't.

Choosing warmth, she
speaks softly, almost
as a whisper through leaves.
Although I don't know it yet, I
sense she has the ability
to sweep clouds away
and leave only sun
shining, warm, smiling.