Love PoemsPoetry

Mamarado

I needed to fly, so I’ve always prayed for wings.
To be very honest, I don’t think I’ve really kissed any girls.
I guess my lips have just been swimming with theirs.
When you kissed me, my pains went away.
You didn’t do it with spit anyway,
you did it here. Right on my forehead.
Then my cheeks.
Then my hands.

Sincerely, I have punched my fist in yesterday,
asking why your face shrinks every time I grow.
I’ve dipped my fingers in tomorrow,
searching for what will happen
if you die before your death.
I have queried the darkness,
asking it why it always approached you, mum.
I have wished that disappointments
were coins, so I would be very rich.
“There are not enough stories to keep
the dead awake” — yet the living
dances to death every day.
Don’t dance yet until I plant
enough smiles on your cheekbones.
Just the way you planted those kisses on my forehead.
And my cheeks.
And my hand.

I’m only running to hold the hands of
death until I become successful.
Wait, wait, wait mum…
Oh, dad said the hands of death are
the hands of time. How do I hold
the hands of my wall clock?
If any of you have discovered how, please tell me.

Desperado is someone who is so desperate,
when I carved Mamarado at the nip of my ink,
I knew I carved you mum—you’re Mamarado.

To be very honest, I don’t think I’ve really kissed any girls.
I guess my lips have just been swimming with theirs.
When you kissed me, I grew wings.

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