superfluous sincerity

My heart drowns in its own superfluous sincerity.

From my Instagram :)

From my Instagram :)

Anonymous said: Do you take requests?

Hello. Do you mean for poetry? If so, I never have received a request before, but I would be delighted to attempt to fulfill one. I’m honored you even asked. I hope you have a lovely day or night.

Stalagmite & Stalactite: a cave love story

Stalagmite:
Upon first upward glance,
curious corneas spelunking
in hopes of reeling a new secret
out from the murkiness
to make it my own,
I saw you.
Pointing at me?
Of all the wonders
tightly tucked into
our collective cavern,
you noticed me.
Just a stagnant stump
with not much fodder
for bragging. But still,
your tip tips its hat at me
and triangular blush
strokes breathe magenta
hues into my dormant
shades of gray.
I feel almost volcanic.
And I am surer now
than ever: that I am
more than leftover
limestone piling up
in some cobwebby corner.
I am alive; I am a somebody;
I am stretching up
in a direction:
towards you.

Stalactite:
Gravity’s fickle flirting
is exponentially more
tiresome with time.
Never do the ceiling’s chains,
covertly camouflaged
as chandeliers,
let me fall.
I was born
with hands pressed
together, with palms
praying for my body
to acquiesce to natural
forces, whose pull
is too much to bear
elegantly. Encrusted
eyelids jail-break from
their clam-closed caskets
of mineral dust,
because the ground
whispers in a new
language every day,
and I can’t help but
want to read it.
But what’s this?
A set of prayer palms
perfectly aligned with
mine from someone
down below?
I wonder…
if I could bargain
with the physicists,
beg them to permit
the successful stretching
of stone, just this once,
what sensations
would we find?
Fingertips upon fingertips
sounds like some sort of
heaven to me,
even if I have to
descend
to reach it.

Stalagmite:
I learned from the bats
how to navigate in the
thickest dark.
I’ll listen hard
as if I was made from
a pyramid of pinnas,
wide open and always
ready to hear you.
I collect vibrations from
your familiar dripstone
diddy, so I know where
you are even when
light particles have
long evaporated
into the face of the
thirsty clock.
Sometimes I like to break
the splish-splash of your
tired tears raining onto
my homeland into two thuds:
so that if I listen right
it sounds like a
wet whisper song of
“col-umn, col-umn
We will
Make a
Col-um”.
And I believe it
will all my minerals.
Hope tastes like the
sweetest saline a tongue
ever salivated;
like sopping salvation
sent from above.

Stalactite:
I learned from spelunkers
that privacy is essential to
budding romance;
many a loudmouth has been
chastised after their kiss and tells
have echoed into the wrong ear
drums, resounding with
the booms of betrayal;
but I gotta tell you:
this was no ordinary kiss.
I’ve seen those intersecting
lips cross paths and then untangle
with a zipper-like smile following after.
But me and you,
we column kissed.
Me and you are
“me” and “you” no longer.
We are “us”.
Down is up and up is down,
You are me and I am you.
Together.
I hope the saliva
that sealed this union
never severs; I hope my
tears amalgamate with yours
and are made sweet somehow.
I hope we water the ground
with our liquid joy,
fertile enough to grow
a new garden of me and yous,
each reaching for each other
in the way that we did.
Or in a new way all together.
And we’ll be us for as
long as the lick of
limestone allows.
Come shattering embrace,
I will lie intermixed with
your shrapnel body
and we will count the stars
we imagine we can see
in the cave ceiling constellations.
As long as I am in proximity
with your palpable passion,
I am more than alive.
I am living.

“And when I close off,
the doors feel less unhinged;
the squeaks go silent.”

—   Daily Haiku #153 Jared M. (via remnantsofapoet)