A Collection of Incomplete Love Thoughts

kiss me but remember that even my lips carry baggage ~~ Watching him with those eyes Dazzling green, golden in sheen Of sound body but wild mind Moments like these How often do you find Yourself wondering if There’s something new for You to see Or have Or want Or to want more? Watching him with those eyes Some may have seen the ground ~~ kiss me now but do it quick this is something layered lips can’t fix kiss me now then say goodbye leave me now so you can’t see me cry kiss me now or later’s fine too I obviously never meant anything to you ~~ a kiss on the neck is enough to protect me from the stormy weather in my heart, but look into my eyes and it’s no surprise that they are what sets me apart. a hickey on chest, well I guess it’s the best I will get from you for now, but look at my tremble, how my words assemble and you’ll ask me when and I’ll allow. ~~ Arm around her waist head tucked into her shoulder chest against her back the definition of comfort and the consistency of a steady beating heart ~~ (one)

What would it be like to have all of your attention lips strong, warm enough, a little too rough,

held against my hollow my ear, neck, collarbone, shoulder my intoxication, bent and ridden by yours

numbness. curiosity. fingers grabbed gripped ground grappled refused to be forced too far forward

Suave, sensual, daring, dramatic slipping down something damned satisfying,

Only comfortable with you around – stranded bottled up and corked; ready to be lost at sea

(two)

split chin to navel, where I remained, you stood above me told me, dip my pen in it, write the truth

everything may shatter when dropped either to bounce or to burst

the pieces put back together, what truly matters for a mosaic of tiles, broken again and again is better than no tiles at all ~~ He tasted like them, though. Whiskey sours – that is – and not beer. She tasted gin and lime, too. But that was her. That she knew. The taste had always made her sick to her stomach – having not been able to drink them in over a year. But, for a moment, she had finally grown to like the taste again. ~~ My purple not the same as yours

I’ll never know what your purple looks like ~~ I’d let you in again even just to feel your nails d r a g g i n g against my skin and tell me I’m yours one last time

Ayla Poitras is a fourth-year from Edmonton, Alberta/Oromocto, New Brunswick. “I learned very quickly and at a young age that I had a knack for storytelling. If I wasn’t telling them aloud, I was writing them down in whatever notebook I had available. Even to this day, I am a writer before anything else. Since joining the Creative Writing program here at STU, there hasn’t been a day where I haven’t written something of a creative nature. This poem/mini poetry collection means the world to me. Over the last two plus years, I’ve grown; however, I’ve also experienced heartache. That is everything this collection is about. Love, longing, loss, and the longing to feel that lost love again.”

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