Cherry Blossom Lips

he wandered wet
on damp cherry blossom paths
post-rain air sweetened
with heaviness of regrets
visions of her cherry blossom lips
mind spinning in cowardly shame
he had run from her in fear

of forever, of a kiss he knew
would seal the deal
for lips as hers weren’t part time pleasure

he knew he would be all in
with one small luscious taste
no going back, no exit

facing himself
— vulnerability’s raw heart,
the fierceness of truest love:

it would swallow him whole

the evidence of her beauty
inner and out
spoken in soft exhales
that departed her soul
inhaled by his that suckled,
drugged, in a springtime instant

forever hers
and yet never
to be hers

the path…
the path was just as pink
just as sweet
and wound endlessly,
— it begged him to run

she would demand
he stay
without uttering
a single syllable
from her
cherry blossom lips

~ Emily C.



Skipping Stars

Skipping stars on your black hole ocean

I dig my toes into sands of time

ripples in the fabric, dark matter fantastic

lost along this exquisite shoreline

We could play in these alien worlds afar

forever, forever gazing toward darkened zones

just take my shaking hand, my love

orate our ancient home’s storied tomes

Step by step, we jump asteroid to asteroid

evading age as our laughter echoes

inside our heads — as silence swallows sound

the world recedes…just another galaxy we know

You catch me on Saturn’s rings, afloat

breaking pebbled pattern, orbits altered

our circles merge in love’s gravity game 

— two hearts in one heartbeat patters

Skip your stars on our black hole ocean

lay me here on web of cosmic cloth

your ultraviolet heat I need deep within me

unleash your universe

into my secret path



~ Em C.


My Lonely Heart

it was
the way you spoke to me
it was
the crescendo in your tone
it was
the new vocabulary
used to bring my heart home

it was
how you loved my name
how you said it
never the same

it was
the play in your banter
it was
how you never failed laughter
how you knew I needed you

it was
the rise of my pulse
how you brought the heat close
how you stoked my flame

it was
how when I was falling
how you always caught me

it was
the kiss you planted
how the thought of you made me faint

it was
the moment you entered me
it was
the press of you deepening
how you knew the right spot
how you triggered new sounds

it was
the crack of climax

it was
the second I knew

how you melted me
from the start

how you stole
my lonely heart


~ Emily C.



I want to be the woman who wakes up in your bed… 

somewhere in Italia, on an autumn day. 

The rain will have fallen; just enough to bring the petrichor out after a long dry summer, the microscopic atoms of ancient clay carried in the drops that burst fragrance through a cracked villa window. It overlooks the vineyard we would tend to, the soil we would nurture.  

There, the grapes ripen like our love; hung out to dry and tangled together on the vine, sweetened by time in the unforgiving sun – our rebellion.

It would be linens and warm skin, together. It would be creaking wood in the wind, and uncomplicated life. Rolling hills carry my voice, calling your name without hesitating, because you are my native language, the only one I’ve ever spoken fluently. Unlike Italian. You teach me that.

You teach me that with every “Buongiorno, amore mio.”  I drink it like caffe’ latte in small sips, swirled.  My eagerness would only increase your determination and eventually, it will stick. I would say, “Grazie mille, amore mio.”  One day it will be habit.

Conversation is my foreplay. We would talk sometimes passionately, sometimes softly, sometimes only with our eyes. You would speak to me your philosophy, I will challenge you with mine. 

Our sex would stop time.

The seasons would turn, the wine would mature as sunsets coursed over our union in time lapsed waves until we paused to see butterflies mating on a grape leaf.

Lips whisper lines of poetry, drawing me deeper until drunk on your soul.  

I can see you there now, alone, without me. My journey has already begun, first in thought. Next in reality.

You would wait. You would wait without stopping. 

And when you saw me, finally,

you would know.


~ Em C.



In the mood for some creative writing/prose.



“What does the air in Italy smell like?”
she asked.

He, the American writer in Naples,

“…Of lavender
and damp ancient clay.”

She fell hard. His words made love
to her thirsty heart.

Their words together, an electric storm,

The kind of connection that begs

Two souls briefly converge,
realizing their limits.

She will never smell lavender again
without thinking of him, of Italy

and what could have been.

~ EC