In this poetry story, Molly Fichter flows on feelings of identifying intimacy within friendship in achieving greater connectedness with the people in our lives.
That macabre fairy dusts hate off
her black wings, with a bat of her lashes
and a pout of her lip.
She cuts you not with her claws but with her wit.
Soft soul forged from heat, Polished by sleet.
The closest thing to an angel you’ll ever meet.
She decorates daily and and has many flings
with cats in the garden tails twitching at the tip
Love sucks cause it hurts and it makes her sick
But my Angel, I promise to keep
Our love alive, I’ll share my heat.
Beautiful mind you’ve been here before
You passed through the proverbial door.
Perceived with grace and compassion
Concealing her face with a bastion.
Losing what little light we have left.
Maybe it’s for the best.
We grow apart for the purpose of fortification
And call on each other with the force of full nations.
Yet poetry forms in the ebb and flow
And spirits return from the below.
She is a person not a god.
If she knew how highly I thought she might think it odd.
Your moon is always waxing,
Inhale me and enjoy!
But I know it’s quite taxing
Because I’m bound to annoy You with my eagerness.
You never give me less
Than I ask for.
At any hour
You’d give me more,
Never leaving me to cower.
Sorry for the mess.
Please protect your fortress.
Considering the hot coals under our feet
I’d say you’re pretty good at holding a beat.
Even when we’re closer than we ought to be
You cling to the precipice of my need
Among other things
Our connection stings
We day dream about a vacation
We will never take
because that would make
And the restraint I feel
Is it worth it all in the end?
You’ll ask yourself,
But patience: tips the scale.
Grass grows for no one but herself
And she is impervious to your need.
That text you shouldn’t send
You’ll stop yourself
And latent, you lift the veil
She’ll place you on the shelf
Only to bleed herself
A placid omen waits for me,
Intuition strong and free.
An acid woman grows a tree
And wonder if I’ll ever be.
Not ever poem deserves to be read
And the poet uses a muse until it’s dead.
You fed me water and bread:
High and dry until you fled.
Intimacy is an estuary,
Birds planting blueberry.
Doubt is the adversary,
Drying out the tributary.