i want to have
with your poems.
take the haiku you read
on a late night
plane to chicago,
with that villanelle
in a penthouse
on central park
you love for this city,
and apartment above
sky dimming like a chandelier
slow kisses for
Denouement x TiRon & Ayomari x A Sucker for Pumps
Romantic love is always inconveniently self announcing,
despite of its unwilling participants. Wounded healers,
unavailable men in need of constant companionship.
Women whose haunted havens are unsafe.
You can adore someone from a distance,
and with little action,
but loving somebody is an up-close job.
Though it’s counter intuitive,
when you hit a curve in love,
you should accelerate, not brake.
There’s a special place in hell for men who convince women their intuition is insecurity to protect their duplicity.
Boss up on your emotions, before you become a slave to them.
So much I don’t wanna know about the shit you do,
but here it comes,
hoppin’ in my lap like baby powder scented stripper.
Sometimes there are no true sides, there is only “you were wrong.”
Though counter intuitive, when driving, curves require acceleration.
Fear and braking, derail.
Same with love shit.
In the end, we all want love.
And like Pablo Neruda once said,
“I pace around hungry, sniffing the twilight, hunting for you.”
Men truly have a hard time ending a thing.
That’s why God gave women shoes.
one of my favorites.
And there is no real definition of gravity
Because I’m in falling much faster than 9.8 m/s.