reflective emotion and nonsense writing

With every kiss and every hug hello my memory traces your lips against my own. A caffeine stained theobromine deficient stare possesses me. “I like you,” the oversized ruby midnight colored latte cup does not respond to the words whispered through my lips, lingering on its edge. And I am on edge, so nervous the cup clattles against its saucer when I set it back down.

You set your things at a table away from mine and attempt to plug your laptop into the electrical outlet. Sparks fly, but they are not between us. They’re under the table where you crawl. Between your computer and the electrical wire. But your fine. I know, because I asked. Yes, I saw it too. Actually, I felt it. Like the time you held my hand up to your mouth and kissed each of my fingers. But you don’t catch my innuendo. You just make some reference to dogs, or tigers, or some other wild beast that spends their time prowling amongst the legs of young women crossed beneath coffee tables. And I just giggle shyly at the the sight of your hands molded into claws and your grin into fangs.

Ok. So there are no young women sitting next to your table. But it sounded racey, didn’t it? “...the legs of young women crossed beneath tables?” I mean after all, what are they trying to hide between those crossed legs, looking all sassy like that. We know what they got between them. Victoria’s ‘secret’ my... While driving you rambled like a little toy boom box about ‘the return to the vulva’ in an Argentinean gypsy woman’s--no, I mean a little french circus man’s accent.

But now, wordsmith, you seem to have silenced your rhymes to me. I watch you confining them to some mute corner of your hard drive--your lips pierced, your brow pensive, and your fingers pecking at the keyboard. I remember the time I didn’t hear you recite, the time I didn’t hear you make poetry into the mic open, vibrating your sound into the eager ears of self proclaimed hippies and hipsters. Yes, we all felt... the love.

The only scene I see takes place in the soil opened up beneath my sickle where worms wring their bodies in a wild dance beneath baby birds whose mamas slice the worm’s bodies into re-growth. The prefix “re,” to turn around, to come back again, to return to poetry, to the gypsy woman, to our beastial nature where seratonin levels rise at a single glance-- of you.