The spots where ancient bruises used to live
catch his furtive glances;
spots are catching glances? hm that's new.
I gasp
because loving him is like breathing
underwater. Apres moi, le deluge.
Windchimes on his porch sing lead
sign THE lead, do you mean? sing lead sounds so awkward.
to a fading summer sonnet. We are awake,
and we feel the ache of the other being absent
as we look helplessly to a ceiling fan.
And as it spun, I lifted my hand to its blade.
The wood caught before I could retrace my fingerprints
and struck the home of ancient bruises. He laughed
as he tugged me to his room.
Is not the other "absent"? Now he's close enough to touch you. I suppose you meant absensce in a more soul-like sense, but it just doesn't click.
We stood under the heat of the other's body;
quietly noticed the sag in our jeans, let our hands
reach out only to quiver away. Instead, only
the next night's homework was touched.
Well, the build up was "ehh". And the let down sort of amusing. I'm not supposed to be laughing at your misfortune, I don't think.
Parasites live in the walls, so we are careful
to speak of that night. Running our ships
aground is not an option. Instead, we let sinks
fill up, play pretend we weren't already drowned.
Oh, the ending's actually cute. I liked it. Otherwise, the rest of the poem dragged and the forceful "will they? ohhhhh no they don't!" (that is in many of your poems) was sort of lame. Like I said earlier, it could be worse. Nice symbolism, though.
