Touch

This morning my hands wrote with a pencil, turned the key to check the mail, stirred my tea. I rubbed the ridges of my neck, felt the knots beneath the skin. At the nape began the roots of my soaking hair. Fingertips traced the border of skin and hair, the drops of water. Mornings are quiet and grey like the steam rising from my mug. There is a pause before the day begins; I feel it in my bones, a slow breath before the stretch.
This evening my hands ran through his hair, traced his jawline, spread against the bareness of his back. I grasped pieces of him with my fingers, feeling his warmth. His lips were soft. They always were.

Ode to Buttons

I always seem to be losing my
buttons.
They're falling off my
winter jackets,
colorful cardigans,
blouses and sleeves.
They leave loose strings
and silly holes among the predictable pattern.

I always collect buttons in a
glass jar.
There are some I've found
on the ground
between parked cars,
blended into carpeting,
forlorn in corners,
and lost in closets.

I have collected many types of
buttons.
Ones with two holes,
some with four;
ones with designs,
some with carvings;
ones that are circular,
some that are square.
Sometimes I wonder if
the possibilities for buttons could end.
Could three holes be poked
instead of four?

I take Wednesday afternoons
to sew on my buttons.
By hand, of course,
because to risk a button under the
plunging needle
powered by the strength
of a machine,
is too large to take.
The first thread through each hole,
hinders a button wobbly
and temporary.
Only several minutes later,
when lines between holes
become thicker and prominent,
does the button stand
with a firm confidence.

Some prefer zippers,
with their quick teeth,
or Velcro,
with its firm grip,
maybe laces,
with the creative freedom of knots.

I prefer buttons.
They slide their way through
slivers between fabric
to stand and appear before us all
in silence and confidence.
They stand with individual pride,
organized into dutiful rows.
They elegantly line
the spine of an anxious bride,
small and white,
just like her teeth,
uncovered by lips parted in a smile.
And just like the hands
grasped between him and I,
do the buttons hold
by the strength of being intertwined.

Happiness

Warm bodies and stretched smiles,
precise steps and reaching arms.
Girls are pinwheels,
Men as branches,
both move in unison like a breeze
continuously moves them across the floor.

I watch with wide eyes
nothing in particular,
but everything at once:
knees, toes, thighs, hips,
necks, eyes, spine, lips,
Each feature placed in unison,
a chorus of movement that fills the room.

Their bodies sing to be a humbling tune,
tell a story that the mouth
cannot shape alone.
I listen intently,
my heart echoing the rhythm of each phrase.

Future days hold the beauty
of my song and my story.

A Topic: Heartbreak

Heartbreak. I've been studying its complexities for years--but not that many, I'm only 17. There has to be a way avoid its poison influence.
There is the coward's solution of withdrawal and seclusion where chances escape from the ensconced personages. A house, a workplace, a gathering of those of same sex to avoid temptation with contempt. Places are checkpoints veiled with a stare caught on the ground. Visions come of ambitions, goals, accomplishment, always refraining from scenes of conjointed passion pleasure. The mind is cluttered with things of need, not the whim of wandering wants or the fruit of unreasonable thought. Never unreasonable thought. Thoughts of escaping from strict regiment, then comes danger.
Some are not as severe with their restriction, but only disconnect in feelings and commitments, keeping themselves within regular routine. Boyfriends and girlfriends are even part of a year's experience, but never do three vulnerable syllables pass the lips. Vulnerability is totally avoided. Relationships equate to events on a calendar, planned out and predicable. Cut ties when he comes to close.
The poison of heartbreak drives me to elude my past behavior. Every lover transformed to an attacker. But what could he want when there's nothing where my heart used to be?

Betrayal

Words tear at my throat in the hope of gaining control of my mouth to utter to her. Jane and I had only one week until I left to join all those that have done the same in the past year. Four of us would be reunited, while she remained under the same roof. Not only did I have mixed feelings of leaving her behind, but these haunting words would only tear her apart.
Ren had returned two months earlier to stroke my hair and kiss my temples. Jane would grasp his hand, but his eyes followed me. Ren loves Jane, we both do, as she loves us. 

Want : Need (II)

Kyle was very good at lingering; he lingered in conversation, after parties, at my door. Especially at my door. 
Who could ignore such an obvious gesture? I couldn't. Tom wasn't taking me anywhere and Kyle was new, intriguing.
So I took the bait. He joined me when my roommates were gone; I began to cross into his physical bubble: casually touching his hands, sitting and standing slightly closer to his figure, lingering in our hugs before he left. 
One early morning, when the sky was grey while the sun hid behind the mountains, he met me outside to walk to campus. During the presentation his hand would caress against my side, against my palm. Reckless teenager felt nice.
In the evening, we all gathered in the dark to watch a movie. My eyes hung heavy from waking early on a weekend, so my head rested against the warmth of Kyle's chest as he held me in his arms. Occasionally I would raise my head to watch a particularly engaging scene or at the prompting of Kyle's to make sure I was awake. At that point he would lift my head level with his. His third prompting led to a kiss. In the quiet darkness we shared a few more, only distracted by the presence of our company.
Monday I would have to buy my roommates ice cream.

Want : Need (I)

He invited me over for dinner. Not a date.
"Are your roommates coming too?"
"Nope." Maybe.
Kyle made dinner while I talked to his roommate. Man, was Kyle attractive. During dinner the two of us had awkward conversation. Awkward because of the silent pauses. The food was good; he lived up to his "good cook" claim.
Then he mentioned a movie. I guess it is a date...
He sat close. Closer. I restrained my hands in my lap to avoid the temptation of wandering fingers. But I didn't need to make the first move. His arm soon found itself wrapped around me, shifting me right against his side. Self-control faded from my fingers and were then interwoven with his.
I was never good at loyalty in romantic relationships.