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tiny deaths: the love poems of meredith m. bailey
High Tide
Lie with me in a slate blue, ocean
bed
waves of covers above our heads, meet soft
like cool waters that creep along the shore creep into my
heart
and seep through porcelain skin.
Your fingers, ships, explore each curve and shore,
and oh i adore the crescent smile on your
face
and shoulders providing a safer place
than the world outside.
For a girl, so different from the rest: the tides have been rough
She weeps at night, drowning
alone
hands clutched tight around a phone
that never seems to
receive
the call when she needs it to.
Lie with me in this ocean bed and erode my fears
away like rock beds smoothed
to the smallest, finest grains that slip
between your curious fingers.
Still searching for hidden treasures;
secret pleasures
while your smile beams bright
on your moon face, full tonight and I
fight hard to gaze long at the
stars
above the roaring, slate blue ocean, and Mars.
a pair of burning red lips hung in the sky.
One Month, Tomorrow
For David
"One month is tomorrow,"
you said, love as I walked out your door
down your front steps, a thousand miles away.
One month, tomorrow-
Because days with you, Love, are minutes.
Time is fleeting, yes, but there is no time with you:
there is only you and me
(not even the space between us exists).
One month, tomorrow-
And tomorrow when I wake, from a 30 dream sleep-
I’ll wake with your face beside mine, Love,
tomorrow morning, one month away.
i ran in
pouring
r
a
i
n
laughing like
a mad woman
feet soaked cold
care - less
water
d
r
i
p
s
wind-blown cheeks; moist, red
apples in a barrell
hair whips - twists
messy - doesn't matter
i felt
b
e
a
u
t
i
f
u
l
The Chemist and The Poet
It’s funny how two people,
Who would normally just exchange
a few polite nods or words at an uncomfortable dinner party-
would ever fall madly in love.
One drinking a cool, safe import beer
while the other sips red wine as if she were born
to indulge herself in Pinot,
somehow manage to collide in this world
and spend almost every waking, and awaking moment together.
His brilliant, Type A, organized life,
complete with potato chip clips,
endless scientific knowledge
and the same nightly bedtime routine,
should have been no match for her
Type B, poetically slumped body draped on his couch,
like a Renaissance painting, pondering the ways of the world.
But, they are a perfect match no matter how many times
She will sigh and declare in a careless, careful voice
“It’s up to you, Honey.”
When he probes her about what she wants for dinner.
Maybe it is his sound stability-
Or her wild unkept hair, hanging in her eyes
that continues to fascinate them.
Or perhaps it is even the way that they breathe
Her short, scuttled pants; a sign of anxiety or excitement
And he, taking long and scheduled exhales
That somehow allows them to be one breath in tandem
Regardless of her stars blindly running
And his complete transfers of electrons between atoms.
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