angel kisses & chamomile tea

this poem is from last november/december, but its feelings are coming back to haunt me

My mother used to tell me
"freckles were kisses from angels"
when I came home from school,
self conscious of the dusting across my nose
that only looked like her old coffee grounds.

The idea seemed silly.
'Angel kisses'. Like strawberry milk coming from pink cows,
or being green with envy.
Freckles were not angel kisses.
Cows were brown, not pink.
Envy isn't green. It's hot, in my heart.

Yet, now, a morning in April,
I sit in your canary-coloured bedroom,
Ponyo playing on your laptop.
Your face,
dappled like a fawn, scorches my sternum.

It's silly.

The inked sun on your shoulder blade.
Rain dampening and
stroking your copper braid.
Sunlight teasing out scarlet hue on your cheeks.
Chamomile tea warming your stomach.

Flames now reach up and lick my throat.
I'm almost choking on it.
You make me a mug,
without asking, you already know.
Bitter heat is washed away with honey.

Maybe this is enough for me.


...For now.

Reviews

[John the Baptist]

Angel kisses are really all right. Having your sternum scorched doesn't sound half bad, either.

[emmajoygreen]

What finely put words! Can almost hear your voice. A conversation start to finish as one person is speaking, the other thinking aloud.

'You make me a mug,
without asking, you already know.
Bitter heat is washed away with honey.

Maybe this is enough for me.

...For now.'

A story in poem shape.. and more to come, perhaps. Or could.