Greg The Poet
another love poem
A voice that blends
from cool and quaint
to bold and brave
Soft and smooth
in all he speaks
With cigarette in hand
hope in my pocket
I finally felt
his ribbon mouth
His hands found
the small of my back
and the nape
of my neck
Black, purple,
whisped locks
shades of grey,
sun-licked leather skin
I grabbed his clothes
pulled him in
consumed his air
then breathed
out
smoke
Moving, shifting,
fleeting spark —
he is a vapor
on my spine,
a faded flavor
on my tongue
he evaporated
quicker than
he puddled
He is a chest
of drawers, full
of empty compartments
I would not mind
filling his spaces
for a night
or maybe two
I find empty boys
have a better kiss
and those whose compartments
harbor aching
a tighter grasp
A poet projects
the entirety
of his soul
whether depressingly
barren
or gorged beyond
his brims
Whether his hands are
piercing nitrogen
or warm
as the two
that swallowed
mine
