blasting my song
while dancing home
after work on a Friday.
sinking into an ice bath
when the a/c’s broken on
a scorching summer afternoon.
cocooned together,
slowly drifting to sleep
in your arms every night.
sleep
a welcome break: a haiku
woke with a start —
realized that a month long
vacation began.
the moment I knew
the moment I knew
(that I loved you)
was when
you fell asleep
covering me
& I didn’t mind
the extra heat.
The cure for insomnia
“Move. You’re suffocating me.”
“Not what you said a few hours ago –”
“Shut up.” Jade gasped for air dramatically as Cole rolled off of her.
“You demanded that I hold you all night.”
“Instead, you sprawled on top of me like a starfish.” She rolled her eyes and propped herself up on her elbows. “Get me a glass of water and two Advils.”
“I don’t know where anything is — ” He leapt off the bed as she glared. “Kitchen and medicine cabinet?”
“Your deductive skills never cease to amaze.” When Cole returned, Jade grabbed and downed the water and tablets. “The boy can follow directions! I knew guitar-playing wasn’t your only skill.”
He sat beside her, reaching to tuck an errant strand of hair behind her ear. She frowned and swatted his hand away. “Can we talk –”
“No.”
“It was awesome –”
“Average.”
“– and I think we could be…”
“Be what?”
“Great.”
“I’m great. You’re okay.”
“We could be great together.”
Jade patted his hand. “The only reason we even happened was copious amounts of vodka.”
“An alcohol-induced lapse in judgment?”
“Precisely.” She burrowed into her blankets, closing her eyes. “Plus, what would the rest of the band say?”
“They would say, Finally!”
“Your clothes are in the bathroom.”
After trudging there, Cole shrugged his shirt on. “You ripped the buttons off my favorite shirt.”
“I’ll get you a replacement.”
“My car’s still at the bar.”
“Sounds like you’re taking a bare-chested walk of shame.”
“Can you give me –”
“Too tired to operate a vehicle.”
“Maybe this is the cure to your insomnia…”
“Definitely not. Lock the door on your way out.”
“See you at rehearsal?”
Jade’s soft snores answered him. She slept better than she had in years.
abysmally low tolerance: a haiku
never sleep on time
after coffee this morning
oh, low tolerance.
the impossible magic of complements
he will ask about
your worried frown upon seeing
the downward twitch of your mouth.
he will discover that
the scrape of his week-old beard
down the slope of your neck
rouses you from sleep (much) quicker
than the loudest alarm on his iPhone.
he will narrow his eyes
(but laugh) when you pout
& claim he doesn’t kiss you enough.
he will kiss you twice (for emphasis)
& know that your craving for affection
depends on the time of the month.
he will offer his arms
(instead of platitudes)
after a horrible day at work.
you will tuck your head
beneath his chin & return his embrace.
he will remind you
of some firsts that you forgot —
like the first day you met:
you were wearing a blue dress
(which you wouldn’t have given away
if you knew he would remember).
you didn’t forget that
he was the cute boy with a French accent
at the information desk —
you just didn’t recall
what you were wearing that day.
he will make you laugh
with his catchphrases
& rants about things
like celebrating birthdays.
he will laugh when you trip
because he already warned you
about a big drop in
the last step on a staircase.
you will forget to run as
he uncovers every flaw
& learns the nuances
of every facial expression.
you will fall (more wholly)
in love with him
as you do the same.
you will believe in
the impossible magic
of complements.
Dusk
Blankets crumpled at the foot of our bed,
overhead fan whirring,
almost tuning out the fighting drunks at El Bar.
Reflexively,
you reach for me and I curl into you.
The only instance when
I never complain
of being enveloped in heat.
It’s impossible to sleep
without your breath on my neck
and the safety of your arms.
sometimes, Samantha writes 