Countdown

It's 4 in the morning,
                            we're 3 fingers-widths apart,
                                                                    and 2 tired for whispered goodbyes
                                                                                                                        to any 1.
4, 3, 2, 1 . . . and I'm falling.

This rooftop is too small for us.

Underneath a non-azure, nameless sky,
        surried by cloud clusters,
                         I muster only enough to gaze.
Falling, onto concrete that consumes a white lace skirt,
jaws of pavement that grip me, convince me of their solidness.

This rooftop is too real for us.

It's like remembering the lyrics to a long-forgotten song,
                                                                                    my unsung rooftop boy.

Dangled legs loom,
     tempting vertigo in indigo jeans,
it seems so easy
                       to lie here, calm on the cool concrete,
death and debauchery a thousand feet beneath us,
talking about Hemingway
and the future of nostalgia.

This rooftop transcends us.

A place where stale cigarettes
    smell like coffee in hazelnut hair
and empty beer bottle dreams
become fine wine
tossed in the air above

the rooftop that greets us.

We curl together like parantheses
(and I know this is not the end of me.)

It pours

It was the stretch of dreams & in-seams
that gleamed & glimmered in dusk;
the husk of a far gone morning turned,
churned to butter and biscuits.

Theirs was a popsicle love,
full and fleshy at first lick - a summer of promises to keep
but seeping and sickly, wilting come August day.
Stuck like rice glutened hands, palms coated,
Fingers greedily devour,
                                     but come the final hour,
                                                                         washed clean of their undoing.

Theirs was an umbrella love,
hushed by showers & pools of sweet nothings, dewdrops of
tenderness
until
      the rain
                  pours
                           no longer...
and the heart fails to grow fonder,
my sun-dried tomato love.

copyright 2012 Yue Yuan

Restart.

I feel it again,
                     the rush of sometime, maybe, possibly, here...
a tear in the weave of my would-be reality,
                      you, dear heart.
Press restart, no longer replay,
                                             heartaches forgotten,
I want to lie in your arms,
warm and so far, but so worth the stretch,

I want to hold your face,
                                    trace outlines of lips, eyelashes, and contours,
of you.

To remember, every crevice and curve....

I could love you.