dark romance romantic poem poetry in red moses mikheyev

In Red: A Poem

Crimson colors wash a dress

Worn to the rhythms of a chest

Containing a fragmented heart built to impress

 

Red satisfies like a thousand colors

Wears you out by a thousand lovers

Your wrists are draped in pearled hollows

 

Love you softly with tender low-key

Pick a mood where you unclothe me

Knuckles clenched leave me torn and lonely

 

Find a gaze where I am youth

Where I bleed emotions—not bulletproof

Seek and ye shall find my truth

 

Drip with myth your tender lips

Caress my chin, you unclenched fist

Hasten the night, you subtle bitch

 

Emotions wide and vast like seas

Bermuda Triangles she depletes

A stone for bread in times of need…

 

My love is lust that borders violence

I have a date with grave impatience

A sacrificial lamb borne on times ancient

 

A touch for taste her hands desire

A rush for paced her sex satires

A love for haste her heart requires

 

God, that stubborn gaze of hers

A thousand bruises, a thousand cures!

Her cosmic extravagance while I’m demure…

 

I approach with nothing left to say

My words engraved, infinite poetry

Your look is fixed—so cruel. Touché

 

Is there a lyric left to write?

Are you hysteric due to fright?

Are there no lovers to indict?

 

Casual cruelty is your forte

Jaded courtesans of various shades

Circle your body for days and days

 

Do you not know that I am human?

That I have hopes and grand delusions?

That I breathe smoke and ache perfusions?

 

Satans carve your face like razors

Beauty peeled away like vapors

Image-scarred mind without erasure

 

In a hundred years, when the dust is settled

When my dead body with gossip meddled

Is left a mystery for poets to peddle

 

The world will want to know you too

They’ll ask for red, I’ll give ’em blue

They’ll ask for me, but who the fuck are you?

 

Written by: Moses Y. Mikheyev

Dedicated to “Kitty”–for being yourself; that is, an enticing muse. In other words, fuck you, and I won’t dedicate shit to you–not this poem at least. Not now, not ever. 

 

The artwork featured in the blog banner is Vicente Romero’s. Please check out his paintings here: https://vicenteromero.wordpress.com

1

Love Is…

Love is a wrinkle formed by beautiful moments—moments that have been pushing and groaning—making its way across a portrait of an aging couple that still kisses on the mouth.

Love is the venerable arm holding steady a cane making its way down the we-have-been-here-before.

Love is the cracking movement of arthritic joints rushing to greet you; love is the pain that follows—the Tylenols, the Ibuprofens—taken on account of movement, movement directed towards you.

Love is the shaking fingers plucking guitar strings that no longer vibrate the way they should, leaving room only for silent sounds that remain unspoken, lyrics unheard but somehow understood.

Love is the eye that twinkles despite the tarnished wastelands that surround it.

Love is the continuation of a promise made decades ago when two humans thought they could love each other forever and ever and ever…

Love is a raspy voice arising from burnt out lungs that utters a name only you, the beloved, could understand.

Love is a tear quietly drawn out by gravity, flowing over valleys and valleys of wrinkles, of times well spent together—flowing, I may add, on account of you.

Love is a boisterous laugh filling rooms, hearts, and children’s souls with the joy that makes all life possible.

Love is the walk-along, the tag-along—that one person who treads alongside you.

Love is a collection of little and big footprints that appear to follow you wherever you go.

Love is the flu-like symptoms, the gifts of grace, you receive when caring for those you love—for you, too, were once cared for in sickness.

Love is the stoic face of a heartless man asking you for your forgiveness.

Love is the nine-to-five, the do-or-die, the cannot-call-in-sick, the overtime.

Love is the man who forgets his wife’s birthday only to remember their anniversary.

Love is the “thirty more minutes and I’ll have this essay done” said a million times over and over and over…

Love is the response, the “you’ve said that before.”

Love is the unapologetic acceptance of a human being whom you are honored to call your own.

Some say “love is patient” and that “love is kind.” It may be true. But I think love is the impatient, the now-or-never, the YOLO to your MOFO.

Love is the energetic drive of youth, the restless beating of a broken heart that’s going to get broken again and again and again…

Love is the magical, the I-will-fall-in-love, the you-just-watch-me.

Love is a box of chocolate truffles left for you in the most unromantic of places, half-eaten.

Love is the cocoons that became butterflies in your stomach that became first-kiss.

Love is the stupid thing that you got yourself into one summer night when you thought you were too cool for school.

Love is the palpitations you experienced, the noisy bleedings in your brain, the sweaty palms, when you laid eyes upon your beloved.

Love is what it was because it became what you never thought it would become.

Love is because love does.

 

Written by Moses Y. Mikheyev

Dedicated to “all of the people who have made love possible.”