Commute – A poem.

The moon is full
and dim.

A haze that pales its color—
a muted pink behind sheer fabric.

It peeks behind the mountains
like her nipple as she dips—
a warm, golden blush
that is just the reflection
of light sent cascading
across the star-filled asphalt
singing beneath my tires.

Her soft touch still lingers
as I drive.

The clouds rise like the ocean—
an impending wall of rain and cold
and hope.

To crash against me,
over and over as we both shiver—
the blistering warmth that chills
as we race through each other.

JKolasch

Cloud Voyeurism – A poem.

The sheets cling to her curves, like
a toddler clinging to her mother,
afraid of leaving the comfort of stuffed animals
and cartoons for the terror of making
real friends, and learning what happens
when she has two apples and Johnny snatches
one. Makes her cry for mommy. The fabric
pulls taut against her, showing pale peach beneath
its white, where her skin threatens to fade
through and escape. Her breathing is captured,
breasts rising and falling like rolling
waves lapping at my feet. I can imagine
the sand feels pleasant spilling between
my toes, like she spills from the sheets.
Her legs escape, snaking over the bed
and sinking feet into the plush, white carpet.
For a moment, the sun presses through
the window, and she is golden
in the space between the sheets struggling
to contain her.

JKolasch

Wingless – A poem.

There is a twist in the cloud.
Like she twists a finger
through her hair and sighs.

She wants to fly,
but angels don’t have wings.
Or so they say.

Instead, she dangles her feet
from the edge of heaven and imagines
the ocean kissing her ankles.

JKolasch