Tag Archives: relationship

Poetry

Two Step

Leave a comment

It takes two to tango,
Or so they say.
But how many does it take to fall?
The pair takes the hit for one misstep
Once the rhythm is broken,
We are both on the floor.
Disqualified.
Lost.
Done.

I loved the way we moved together.
The glide across the floor,
Needing to touch.
Always more to say.
Staring eye to eye.
The tangle of the sheets.
Intimate.
Lustful.
Love?

I believe the more beautiful the dance,
The more terrible the fall.
Precious objects shatter to dust.
Flying high then hitting hard.
Arms and legs scattered
We aren’t even touching
Separated.
Broken.
Chaos.

I’ll stop asking who tripped first.
Even if it were me, I’ll never know.
Taking blame is my superpower.
It was me. It is always me.
This is how it will happen next time.
And you showed me how.
Empty.
Silent.
Blank.

Any two other dancers would stand,
Take a breath,
Shake themselves off,
offer each other a hand,
Look each other in the eye
Maybe “let’s try again”
But not us.
Not now.
Not again

Someday, I will remember the dance
And not just the fall.
Your touch will feel true.
Your kiss will mean something
Your heart will be there, too
Like it was before that day
Graceful
Content
Real

NSFW contains adult language, Poetry

The Look of Arousal

Leave a comment

That look in your eyes was not sexual. Not exactly. This was before I knew a man could be aroused by the cascade of destruction that he set into motion, simply to punish me for some wrong i will never understand, because it is too complex or too subtle or too specific to your past and your way of thinking. And I didn’t see it coming.

I had met your hardness, before. Sought it, welcomed it, craved it, asked for it, thanked it, and asked for it, again. There were times I thought it was my greatest gift, that it owned me, or times that I thought that i owned it. But never before had it spoken with such power and certainty and disregard and sheer aggression. Never before had it sought to make me sorry or to make me afraid or to make me cry or to make me nothing. I did not know there could be so much energy in that particular act, in that assault with a friendly weapon. That arousal in you so potent, frightening. Sexual and yet something else entirely.

I will never forget that look in your eyes. Still, I search every lover’s eyes for a hint of that shadow, afraid of what it might mean. And I always find it. Even when it is not there.

Poetry, This work copyright 2014 Thomas Kreek

The Transcendental Transaction of Touch

Leave a comment

Please. There is an emptiness, that can only be filled by the texture of skin, and the thrum of circulation, and a warmth that is not my own.
Yes. Here I am, not with an emptiness, but an openness to meet you where you are, and to share in your hunger.

Please. The last time? I cannot account. Fluids were exchanged, but hearts were not.
No. This is not how I think about us. That is not what we are to each other.

Please. But last night, you…
Alright. yeah. ok..

Please. It aches, inside, where you are not.
Maybe. Let’s see how good you can be.

Please. Even in the lights and noise of the city, it is too dark and quiet, here, alone.
Let’s talk. How much do you have to spend?

Please. We never do, anymore.
Not now, I’m tired.

Please. You are so beautiufl.
Yes. I love you.

Please. I am lonely.
No. Loneliness looks bad on you.

Please. You are so good at it.
No. You are not.

Please.
Yes.

Thank you.
Our pleasure, shared.

Poetry, This work copyright 2014 Thomas Kreek

five weeks of walking to his place

Leave a comment

He he lived in that yellow apartment house just between the liquor store and Get the hell off my property Lady.

Week 1: it was a left, a right and a left. There were a few shops and houses that I had never noticed. A newly painted grand Victorian, fronted by a garden newly cleared with some small plantings just getting started. As I crossed the street toward the house on the corner, I could hear Get the hell off my property Lady yelling at some kids in the side yard. My palms were sweating. I made it to the front step in 23 minutes.

Week 2: beautiful day. On the quiet part of the second street, there is a small craftsman, with a porch draped in ivy. The porch swing was still gently rocking, with two steaming cups of coffee and the half finished crossword on the table in front. I glanced up, just to see the bedroom curtains drawn. My hands were fidgety. I got to the front step in 21 minutes.

Week 3: the out of place cape, across the street from the Victorian, has some balloons and a table just at the edge of the yard. One part of the table cloth says congratulations, Pat and Stoney. I cut through an alleyway. Get the hell off my property Lady was glaring at a couple of teens coming down the sidewalk. My hands were warm. I got to the front step in 23 minutes.

Week 4: in the alley shortcut, the lawn chair captain was finishing his fourth beer in the six pack. He was glaring at a cluster of sparrows on the guy wire to his house, as they fluttered over to a nearby tree. His BB-pistol next to him. They’re not the birds from the movie, you know. He said, “yeah, but they could always turn on ya without warning.”  A car pulled away from the space right in front of the building just as I arrived. I stopped off at the liquor store to get a nip. My hands were shaking. I made it to the front step in 24 minutes.

Week five: the garden in front of the Victorian was cleared again, just after it finished blooming, like it only had a short purpose, and then was discarded. New starts of different plants are already sprouting. That car was parked in front of the building, but no one came to claim it. I ducked into the liquor store for 2 nips. They burned going down. I went around the block, again. My fists were tight. I made it to the front step in 32 minutes.

I waited 12 minutes, but there was no answer. As I started to walk back home, I heard a voice. “cheer up, young man.” It was Get the hell off my property Lady. The flower she held out was just past its prime. “here, it’s from my garden.”