love poems
Love poems for hopeless romantics; I'm the poet and you're my muse.
William Westerfeldt House
Western czarina, she is a gothic embodiment of smoke and brass. Her jungle-cat perfume saunters passed in woven gossamer. She’ll put it plainly, as she only can, how she once swam with snow-white saxophones, lap steels, and baby grands, lamenting how her phonographs have since ceased to sing after so many years of breathing in the brine of bay air. Each night is a crushed red spectacle beside the words carved by Anger into the staircase of her spine. She’d abide the elephant in her parlor-room, his aloof squeeze and the rotgut things they'd got up to. On her lacquered breast, they performed their wanton rites to The Electric Kool-Aid Acid Test and Grateful Dead. Ibex and the Bearcat clung to the waist of her vestibule, while Leopard spread with all the flare of Victorian taxidermy across her belly. She’s long been swindled of sleep behind the back-lit fuchsia of Alamo Square, while dervish stars whirl slovenly above and divvy up the cosmic minutia: stardust, sex, and music.
By Sean Balogh9 months ago in Poets
Burnt to Ashes: A Love Left Behind
I am burnt to ashes in the fire of love, The one I once held dear is now far above. My happiness has drifted to an unknown shore, To a place where I can find it no more. My joy has taken flight, soaring so high, Vanishing forever into the deep blue sky.
By Brain message0019 months ago in Poets
Snowflakes on Your Skin
Christmas descends like a thief in snow, Stealing breaths where your touch used to glow. In streets adorned with lights and reckless cheer, I find the ghosts of love we didn’t bring here. We were a season unto ourselves once wild, December nights where love was the only chill. Your laugh – a spark in the frosty air, My heart – a flame you’d secretly shelter there. Do you remember nights we drowned in scent? Chasing shadows on walls where love was bent? Your eyes – a window to a warmth I'd claim, My love – a snowfall that only fell for you in vain. We wrote our history on fragments, on air, No endings planned, no exits we could spare. In stolen hours, in borrowed light, We were the trants of our own wild delight. Then the wires snapped. The signals blurred. Like stars dying in a sky we could no longer. You took the compass. I took the worn pages. Now I unfold them alone, in altered stages. In vacant lots where memories still cling, I find scraps of us – a ticket, a useless ring. The ghosts of touches haunt like unpaid debts, Reminding me of hills we never got to trek. Snow falls quiet on streets we used to pace, Echoes linger where we once found our place. In hollowed halls where Christmas now pretends, I search for shadows of the love we didn’t mend. Do I still love you? Like snow asks if it falls. Like lungs ask if they need the air’s walls. The wanting digs a channel, deep and blind, A geography of you that I still trace in vain.
By Jhon smith9 months ago in Poets
Hollowed Out by You
You left a space where love used to flex, A hollowed chamber echoing _remember me?_ In vacant rooms where shadows now preside, I find the scraps of what we let subside. We were wild maps with edges worn by touch, Tracing paths where love was yet unmapped too much. In glitches of time, we'd find our place, Two fragments merging into one wild, reckless space. Do you remember nights we drowned in scent? Chasing shadows on walls where love was bent? Your laugh – a hinge where my world swung open, My name on your lips – the one sound I'd stolen. We wrote our history on fragments, on air, No endings planned, no exits we could spare. In stolen hours, in borrowed light, We were the trants of our own wild delight. Then the wires snapped. The signals blurred. Like stars dying in a sky we could no longer. You took the compass. I took the worn pages. Now I unfold them alone, in altered stages. In vacant lots where memories still cling, I find scraps of us – a ticket, a useless ring. The ghosts of touches haunt like unpaid debts, Reminding me of hills we never got to trek. Sometimes in dreams, I see your hollowed eyes, A stranger’s gaze where once my name would rise. The maps I keep – they lead to hollow places, Rooms where echoes ask: _Did we leave without faces?_ Do I still love you? Like rain asks if it falls. Like lungs ask if they need the air’s walls. The wanting digs a channel, deep and blind, A geography of you that I still trace in vain.
By LUNA EDITH9 months ago in Poets
