kiss me in the owl hours. by J.W. Bouwman (poem & reading)
mousetappings. by J.W. Bouwman (poem & reading)
drift. by J.W. Bouwman (poem & reading)
declarative. by J.W. Bouwman (poem & reading)
addendum. by J.W. Bouwman (poem & reading)
concentration. by J.W. Bouwman (poem & reading)
there’s a moment
between the pauses
of words
which lingers in
the corner of your mouth
in that moment
my only thought
is of tracing my tongue
along that mysterious hollow
hidden in plain sight
i want to taste
all the secrets
you hold within
object of attention. by J.W. Bouwman (poetry and reading)
sideswiped. by J.W. Bouwman (poem & reading)
kiss me in the owl hours. by J.W. Bouwman (poem & reading)
Habitude by J.W. Bouwman
His skin always looked so smooth, she thought, And cool. Like the pale underside of a cucumber skin. She would often stare at the vulnerable whiteness curving behind his left ear. He sat in front of her, slightly to her right, and every day she found herself trapped by this bermuda triangle of skin. She treasured her secret morsel with a dragon-like glee, knowing it was unnoticed by most eyes, including his own. Many times she wondered how its supple angles would feel against the molten pink of her tongue.
Each day she promised this would be the day to walk the long walk to the elevators beside him. She’d smile a smile that would reveal all her days of longing to him in one heartstop of a moment. His smile would prove her victory, and she would take him home to claim her prize.
Each day she followed him out, behind and slightly to his left.
She then went home to prepare the Food Network recipe of the day, which she’d eat in front of a fluctuating melange of television, weekly status reports, and the occasional paperback novel. Her nights all ended with the crawl inside her personal ocean of cool white sheets. When she had dreams, they consisted only of his flesh quenching her feverish surfaces; waking up to lather, rinse, repeat the day before.
Somehow, it was enough.
Source: writerscafe.org
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