Ashes to Ashes, Dust to Dust
A poem written in a guy's point of view about a girl that he once dated. Pretty long, but whatever. I'd appreciate it if you gave it a read. I wrote this during History and Religion class.
This road ahead of me is empty
and the radio plays something that I had settled on a few hours ago,
but now I really don’t care for it,
and I’m too lazy to change it,
so my thoughts wander.
It’s been a long time
since you stood in the hallway
your dress upon the floor.
You’re naked
and all I can do is watch
as you dance around the table.
Your hand runs over my chest,
cool with heat and passion.
It longs to caress, to tug
to release me into a shelter of reality.
My dark brown hair is dough between
the tips of your soft pink fingertips.
The chipped black polish reflects the fabric,
a silky pile on the floor,
and I’m about to join it
as your fingers entwine with my belt loops
and you pull me against the tender curves of your sweet body.
Your skin is tender
under my cold, lonely flesh.
Your breasts under the embrace
and you move my hands up
and press them against you as if
you want me to bruise you.
You let me go and my hands
fall loosely to my sides.
But you sit down on the table
and your legs wrap around me.
My pulse rises as you begin to undo me.
My eyes flutter shut.
It was a month ago that you asked me
to stop by after work,
the bun in your hair and the leotard
wrapped around your thin, muscular legs.
The glass of whiskey grasped lightly
in your long fingertips,
your lips wrap around the lip of the glass.
I was going to sip my beer,
but your hand found mine
as you spoke about your love for dance.
And here we are.
Here we are.
Here we are,
dancing under the crysyal chandelier
your cries falling on my lustful ears,
but this feeling masked by lust
is one of deeper longing.
But, but, but
I think that it may be because
when I look at you, I always see a face
that never really wanted me.
I see a heart that enjoys the competition
and hated the reward.
How can I love someone like that?
How do I love the girl
who moaned my name as I filled her
then left me to clean myself off.
I can’t make accusations.
I’m not a perfect man,
but as formed in clay, as in your hands,
a wet putty in your fingertips,
I’ll leave in the morning,
but you’ll never really miss me.
So I hop in the car
and turn the ignition.
No radio, just static thoughts,
transmitted through lonely airwaves.
It’s prophetic and a sobbing, beaten cliche,
but this young life would be suffocating
without my personal, clean, chaste
ride into the sunset
leaving a gray, toxic cloud of exhaust behind me.
This road ahead of me is empty
and the radio plays something that I had settled on a few hours ago,
but now I really don’t care for it,
and I’m too lazy to change it,
so my thoughts wander.
It’s been a long time
since you stood in the hallway
your dress upon the floor.
You’re naked
and all I can do is watch
as you dance around the table.
Your hand runs over my chest,
cool with heat and passion.
It longs to caress, to tug
to release me into a shelter of reality.
My dark brown hair is dough between
the tips of your soft pink fingertips.
The chipped black polish reflects the fabric,
a silky pile on the floor,
and I’m about to join it
as your fingers entwine with my belt loops
and you pull me against the tender curves of your sweet body.
Your skin is tender
under my cold, lonely flesh.
Your breasts under the embrace
and you move my hands up
and press them against you as if
you want me to bruise you.
You let me go and my hands
fall loosely to my sides.
But you sit down on the table
and your legs wrap around me.
My pulse rises as you begin to undo me.
My eyes flutter shut.
It was a month ago that you asked me
to stop by after work,
the bun in your hair and the leotard
wrapped around your thin, muscular legs.
The glass of whiskey grasped lightly
in your long fingertips,
your lips wrap around the lip of the glass.
I was going to sip my beer,
but your hand found mine
as you spoke about your love for dance.
And here we are.
Here we are.
Here we are,
dancing under the crysyal chandelier
your cries falling on my lustful ears,
but this feeling masked by lust
is one of deeper longing.
But, but, but
I think that it may be because
when I look at you, I always see a face
that never really wanted me.
I see a heart that enjoys the competition
and hated the reward.
How can I love someone like that?
How do I love the girl
who moaned my name as I filled her
then left me to clean myself off.
I can’t make accusations.
I’m not a perfect man,
but as formed in clay, as in your hands,
a wet putty in your fingertips,
I’ll leave in the morning,
but you’ll never really miss me.
So I hop in the car
and turn the ignition.
No radio, just static thoughts,
transmitted through lonely airwaves.
It’s prophetic and a sobbing, beaten cliche,
but this young life would be suffocating
without my personal, clean, chaste
ride into the sunset
leaving a gray, toxic cloud of exhaust behind me.