Hopefully this will be the worst poem I write all month since it is quite awful.
Longing
for you now,
with such a deep, unwholesome
ache.
Discontented and yearning
like some bulb buried beneath barely
frozen soil,
straining against the frost–
or the recent memory of frost–
awakened
enlivened
stimulated
with even a brief touch of a weak ray of early spring sun–
pale and watery and filtered through heavy, wet clouds as it may be.
And I tell myself not to want you.
But I can’t not want
you
or the idea of
you
when I think of what great fun we could have together,
and I imagine myself
nestled in your bed,
whispering the joys of
you
on shuddering breaths.
I’ve longed for you for so
long.
But to what lengths would I go for you,
to caress your smoothness,
to make you hum under my fingertips,
to make you long for me?
In the long run, would we still long for each other,
after–at length–finding we have very little in common?
Yet you’ve cast a long shadow; I doubt any other would do.
At least now, when I’m still pining after you,
longing
for you.
Oh but how beautiful we would look together,
shining and red and fast and free.
And I can’t not want
you.
At long last
come to me and satiate my
(painful, protracted)
longing.
Spoiler Alert: This poem chronicles my desire to own this El Camino. No joke. I could take it to the drive-in, and it would be perfect for hauling my bike, and I would look so good in it! It has a tape player and cruise control!
I Started Late and Forgot the Dog. 