Our intimacy is universal,
In allusive imagery our hands
Cease to depart, the mana
That silhouettes the creases
At which our fingers bend
To keep the space limited between
Us, an internal ellipsis at which
Dialogue cannot explicitly explain.
In our prime, primal play was a
Subject that fondled the turning
Pages of emerging adulthood,
As adolescence deteriorated in
Exchange for maturity, and often
A lack of, in its immediate essence,
Though our templing form increased
In mass and in physical numerics,
The void at which connects our
Lumbering weight to depth and experiences
Remains detached, however accessible
When approached upon with arms outstretched,
The creases on once peachy skin now
Fold and tatter the separation between
Ink and paper, making the two components
Uniform, making us forget, to lose
recollections, and in order to preserve these
Determinants, we must swivel and joust
The feeding crane that is incompetence.
Dog days must cease, our inactivity in
Knowledge is underwhelming, shallow!
For if we do not cradle our relationship
In both the vinaigrettes of physicality and its
Desirable credentials as well as notions,
The manifestation of contemplation,
If we leave one latter malnourished or mistreated,
Our romanticisms to one another tragically swelter,
From the cruel heliographs of life's quotients and lessons.
We will argue, we will cheat on one another,
We will fall untrue to each other's idealizations,
We will lose faith in only pleasing our
External pleasures, instead of not residing inward
Equivalently.
It is not with this abandonment of deep discussion
That causes memory encoding and retrieval malfunction,
But rather a disjunction in only terms of pleasure,
The mind can be far more intimate than any dueling
Bodies in a bed or soft place could ever perform,
By stimulating the minds of you and I through
Understanding, rulings, and of honesty, the
Trustworthiness between our own zen will zest
And enchant any honeymoon, any swinging and
Bucking hips, any bruising of the neck and thigh,
Arousing the mind makes this love of ours
That much more tasteful.
You and I will dance around the wicks of
Sizzling candlelight, not until our feet get
Sore, for our endorphins will supply our
Sliding tempo until we drop as darling and
Dear, as our hovering souls remain buoyant
As toy ships and light as floodlights.
So feel what it is you feel, and I will justify,
I shall reprove if I so disagree,
We will make this an official custom,
The meetings become fewer and fewer,
This is our upheld sixth sense.
The transitional magic truly overlays,
Through celebration and praise,
Our bodies swaying like swinging church bells,
As we thank the Divine order for our faithful
Harmony.
We are eternally bound.
YOU ARE READING
Shuttle Bus 17: A Poetry Collection
PoetryPoetry from a discombobulated seventeen year old boy. From falling in love to hating parties to loving where you're from, I/you/he tries to truly understand life's prophecies through writing it all down.
