kiss me but remember that even my lips carry baggage
~~
Watching him with those eyes
Dazzling green, golden in sheen
Of sound body but wild mind
Moments like these
How often do you find
Yourself wondering if
There’s something new for
You to see
Or have
Or want
Or to want more?
Watching him with those eyes
Some may have seen the ground
~~
kiss me now but do it quick
this is something layered lips can’t fix
kiss me now then say goodbye
leave me now so you can’t see me cry
kiss me now or later’s fine too
I obviously never meant anything to you
~~
a kiss on the neck is enough to protect me
from the stormy weather in my heart, but
look into my eyes and it’s no surprise
that they are what sets me apart.
a hickey on chest, well I guess it’s the best
I will get from you for now,
but look at my tremble,
how my words assemble and
you’ll ask me when and I’ll allow.
~~
Arm around her waist
head tucked into her shoulder
chest against her back
the definition of comfort and
the consistency of
a steady beating heart
~~
(one)
What would it be like to have
all of your attention
lips strong, warm enough, a little too rough,
held against my hollow
my ear, neck, collarbone, shoulder
my intoxication, bent and ridden by yours
numbness. curiosity. fingers
grabbed gripped ground grappled
refused to be forced too far forward
Suave, sensual, daring, dramatic
slipping down something damned
satisfying,
Only comfortable with you around –
stranded
bottled up and corked; ready to be lost at sea
(two)
split chin to navel,
where I remained, you stood above me
told me, dip my pen in it, write the truth
everything may shatter when dropped
either to bounce or to burst
the pieces put back together, what truly matters
for a mosaic of tiles, broken again and again
is better than no tiles at all
~~
He tasted like them, though.
Whiskey sours – that is – and
not beer. She tasted gin and lime,
too. But that was her. That she
knew. The taste had always made
her sick to her stomach – having
not been able to drink them in over
a year. But, for a moment, she had
finally grown to like the taste
again.
~~
My purple
not the same as
yours
I’ll never know
what your purple
looks like
~~
I’d let you in again
even just to feel
your nails
d r a g g i n g
against my skin
and tell me
I’m yours
one
last
time
Ayla Poitras is a fourth-year from Edmonton, Alberta/Oromocto, New Brunswick. “I learned very quickly and at a young age that I had a knack for storytelling. If I wasn’t telling them aloud, I was writing them down in whatever notebook I had available. Even to this day, I am a writer before anything else. Since joining the Creative Writing program here at STU, there hasn’t been a day where I haven’t written something of a creative nature. This poem/mini poetry collection means the world to me. Over the last two plus years, I’ve grown; however, I’ve also experienced heartache. That is everything this collection is about. Love, longing, loss, and the longing to feel that lost love again.”
If you’d like your creative worked featured email [email protected]
