"Fruit Snacks"

“Fruit Snacks”

Mistakenly got it twisted.

Was ready to catch the mist

and still somehow missed it

so again,

my lap is dripping.

I’ve missed this feeling.

Tiny kisses.

Pecks between sips of juice.

Limbs not loose enough yet.

Joints locked 

like my eyes 

on her thighs

and she drives me.

Wouldn’t bother even trying

to pry myself from this couch.

Mouth open for extra air.

Palms full of her hair 

with a scent reminiscent

of nutmeg and warm cinnamon.

Time went away.

Middle of the day, I suppose.

Close to her center.

Collected clothes around dinner.

Ceiling on a dimmer

like light hardly matters.

Casual switch in her hips.

More gradual now.

Faster.

Smooth and slick in my lap

like lather or batter overmixed.

Fixed on release,

she fits like a crease

Folded gently into pillows.

Moist air billows

like pollen in the wind.

Anticipation enlisted for ease

when she takes me in

and before we reach the end,

I find my lap wet again.

Woke up to her

chewing bubble gum.

Perfume in my lungs.

Bit my tongue

when I leaned in to kiss her.

Whispered demands

for my hands to follow accordingly.

Forward first then leaned back 

after losing my jeans,

or shorts,

or slacks.

It never really matters.

Had her worst ways displayed

as the best of my intentions.

Thought I’d eventually

commit some time to intervention

and make way to some ascension

from my place on this furniture

but her overtures

effective

with a few simple directives

and some incentive, of course

tends to smooth over this coarse

concept of merely being her favorite seat.

I fancy her my favorite treat.

not really one for meager portion

when I can clearly see it packaged.

Managed nice and tight in lace.

Soft and smooth to grace my face

so I would gladly sit in place

if only to enjoy a taste.

Trace of juice at the seam.

Warm like steam just escaped.

Skin slightly scrapes stubble.

Adjustments made for slip and stumble

and the gentle rumbling of thighs.

Eyes close and time froze

when it decided to return.

Moments burned into my mind:

Recurrently resurfacing

sound

like chimes in the wind.

Scent

wondered about when distant,

lusted after when in reach

and truly felt when up close.

Taste

a sweetly scattered burst of flavor

I imagine teeth would have to 

break through skin to savor.

Thought

a loop of similar reasons why I

never seem to labor enough

to rise from this couch

to include the way my neck would bend,

her wrappers strewn across my floor

and in the lazy haze of it all,

this moisture in my lap

Again.

I think I’ll lay here awhile.

Written By: Devin Joseph Metz

"The Labor(Existence)"

"The Labor(Existence)" 

Put down by the pickup
on the things I say.
It doesn't matter anyways
until they just get in the way
and then they matter more
to who?
What patterns are you seeing?
Are things never balanced?
Just uneven?
Is that triggering?
One answer at a time
lest the mind take shelter
in fear.
Eyes that welter in tears
over years of discomfort
and each tier to overcome
for the simple sake of sanity...

Word with no depth is vanity:
an image moving in the mirror
with nothing meaningful
beneath the surface.
Word with thought implies purpose.
Intent.
Consent to one engaged in reality
instead of casually skirting by it.
Try it
and you're either repulsed
or rejuvenated.
You'll rebuke it outright
or accept renewal in a light
that shines that bright for a reason.
Like seasons,
the point between
wanting to and never again
will probably change with the wind
so it serves well to remain in the center. 

Threw your words at me
with a chill cold as winter
with the hope that I'd remember
and therefore be hindered daily.
You openly wished
to impart some frailty
or reveal it under some layer
of superficial armor I'm supposedly wearing.
I'm hearing
and it seems
through the shout and scream
that you appear to be tugging
at the very sky above
in hope that it falls on me. 

I viewed you and your tears
from your anger
to the fear:
Transformation amid clumsy sidesteps
and your missteps saw you stumble.
I watched it all crumble before me.
You should still be standing
before me.

I guess one had to survive
so that the other could tell the story...

Written By: Devin Joseph Metz

"Courtesy"

"Courtesy" 

Don’t make me feel.

To feel means it 

either was

possibly is

or might soon

be real

and that means that

I’m left with layers

to peel back

until appeal and authenticity

appear to be one in the same

and that would require

my willingness to touch that fire

and try not to wince.

To embrace that heat

without growing tense.

To draw again

on what I’ve always sensed

but tried to believe

that I’ve forgotten since.

A brief glimpse

and I’m there again

where again 

is both the incentive

and the indictment.

Nights went by

and we laughed

and I cried

and we tried our worst

to hide it from the light;

caring less about the sight

and too much about sensation.

Actions that went against

every single inclination

that I've unsuccessfully tried to present

as something truly intrinsic to my being.

Don't bring into being

the state of flux

that I've worked so hard

somewhat

to keep tucked away.

Not interested in what one would say.

I shouldn't be, at least.

It makes sense to keep us at bay

to preserve my portion of peace

and I'm well aware

of how selfish that sounds

but with every piece

left on the ground,

it becomes easier to convince myself

that there's nothing I need to choke down

whenever you decide to come around

but,

even when fully clothed,

I feel naked in your presence.

No cover can conceal the hell

that penetrates every veil

I could ever hope to fashion

before you.

With reluctance,

I recount the ways

that I would set the table

by sweeping away labels

I thought would never apply

to you

or me.

Never realized even once

until too close to the end

that I was merely making room:

brushing away the dimmer days

so that the darker nights

would hopefully benefit

from sitting next to a light

barely acknowledged by sight.

Don't tell me it's alright

when I'm not

and you might be.

I don't dwell on likely.

It doesn't matter if you like me

now.

Don't dare appeal to my 

favorite

fractured

fragments

when the advent was more spectacle

than the time before the departure.

Don't be to me now

the very lesson

that I have prayed against

with what energy remained

in reflection

and depression

and stubbornness against futility.

Don't employ that tacit ability

to make light of my humility

so dry

as if it should be perceived

as some sort of consolation prize.

My eyes view you

with no true semblance of solace

but if I might be painfully honest,

I'm still very much in love with you.

That truth I still sit with.

In silence.

Don't deny me that reciprocity.

Written By: Devin Joseph Metz