Anti-Aubade
After love has been made and he has drifted to sleep, I sneak out of his arms and into the still of night. He dreams of me, my liveliness haunting him even in his sleep. He whispers my name into the darkness, sending shivers down my spine. I love our autumn nights, surrounded by Aztec blankets and bottles of cheap wine. Those nights provide me with clarity as I sit at my desk and let my fingertips bleed onto the typewriter. The only light comes from the stars as the open window sends in a rush of crisp mountain air. The musk of the mountains wraps me in its embrace, but I find no solace. I do not write of nature or of crackling autumn leaves. My muse cannot be found in nature. Instead, I find my muse intoxicated between a cocoon of blankets. He starves my insecurities and robs me of the pain I had long endured without him. I write of him, and it's his arms that I crawl back into just as the sun begins to peek out from behind the ridge as he wakes to my graying eyes and a mess of sonnets.
YOU ARE READING
Parchment and Perfume
PoetryThis draft represents the inner workings of my mind, among other things. All of my poems and prose will be cataloged here and available for feedback. Pieces will constantly be added or removed to fit the guidelines for any poetry submissions I have...
