spellbound hellhound. (a latino man’s overarching poem turned unfinished short-story detailed in excruciating sentiment and honesty)

spellbinding

is the term used to describe when you’re holding complete attention of someone, almost as if it were something magical; indescribably intoxicating. have you ever felt light brown eyes lock into your soul, eyes surrounded by the most perfectly tailored bronze skin, like if you crushed up jupiter and sprinkled the dust over an empty canvas, took neptune melted it into paint and used brush strokes like van rembrandt. rolled out a red carpet entrance to ones soul, these…windows surrounded by a sandy visage, complexion smoothed out like camera obscura. such a vicious assessment. have you ever broke silence with a moan? stopped time with a touch? felt a butterfly turn into a lion right in your stomach? why are you such a force to be reckoned with, when your heart beat writes me morse code for the hell of it, dot dot, dot dit dot dot, dit dot dit dit. tell me why breaking down to tears right before conquering your neck with my tongue felt like an arrow split my heart at the seams, landed in your lap and decided to live there. when i tried to get it back, it growled at me. why defocusing in and out on the most delicate image, at the utmost devastating angle–lighting that gives off a entrenching hue, like light cascading off a twinkling lake before sundown, glimmers of what ifs and perhaps. failing to derail raw passion. encapsulating one of the worlds most hypnotic views, hourglass, pinot van gris, pink poisonous ceramic lacing it’s way around sober throats and tongues spewing flirty conversation, guarding carnal rage, hints of strawberry oak packed in sweet alcohol, and telling times. turbo charged sanguine, blood blissful. ignorant to the cyclone about to hit chemical beach, where endorphins masqueraded as hurricanes rush to wrap around your lips

It’s funny. I spend the entire day thinking about you. I’ll daydream. Spend tiny instances, pockets of time, between breathing, and making coffee… just thinking about you. And yet, while I’m falling asleep, after a long day – soft linen beneath me, lids heavy, parallel to the floor. Dim light from another room providing the only discernible ray of bloom. I think about you. I wake up, concerned about god knows what, only to think about you. To check if you’re okay. My bed empty, vessel unoccupied. A silhouette of where you should be now takes reign. There’s a faint smell coming from a blanket you had. It smells like an amalgamation of me, you, sweat, and lingering lust. If it were to seem strange to me, i would be the most anxious individual on the face of the planet. Preparing a doomsday kit, but for forgetfulness. Eternal sunshine of the spotless mindesque, but with a hint of panic and dishevelment. I never thought i’d be so at ease thinking about your smile. There’s so many things I want to do with you, and i want to open myself up to you completely. I’m dreaming about future instances I have where we’re laughing, and the constellations in the background light up our night, and your skin absorbs all the moonlight perfectly. radiant, laser show; pores perfect in size. Stunning, really. I think this is the first time ever where i’ve been completely captured. enraptured by the stills of every dialect that fill your body language. caught up by the negative photo solutions, where tiny secrets and code magically appear. that white dress turns into a sepia-blue toned spaceship, and suddenly the picture is an adventure, rather than just an admiration of your beauty. This didn’t particularly happen — yet. But, i feel anything is possible with you. I’m slowly opening myself up. A crab, in his armor, feeling the warmth of a star permeate through the rock hard shell. Slowly, surely, intensely, moving at this frenetically awesome self sustained pace. You’re the sun. I’m the crab. Constellations. It’s all too perfect. i can’t stop thinking about you, and it doesn’t even look like it’ll ever stop. I can’t wait. I’m so deep into you, i can’t look back. Thanks for this

not finished:

where to begin

where to start. i didn’t expect this. take away my heart and make it objective. like if its some sort of malleable metal. main mission, arms on the clock ticking away. but let’s not start there, let’s deconstruct the chronology of the deconstruction of my expectation, oxidizing the steel surrounding my bloodbox. laid eyes on you, what seems like a mile away. dance floor alcohol. tiles arranged, into this zone of paint. flickering club colors, lighting the way. i’ll tell you now, gazing at you from what seems about a football fields length, was something- at the time- i couldn’t describe (i still can’t, but I understand it better). reporters (random club goers who have unknowingly taken the task of as sports journalists and photographers) on the sidelines ordering mixed drink and routinely ordered imported beers over mainstream domestic craft, set the tone for the night. but, there was something about the luminosity you brought that I couldn’t put my finger on. luminosity, is a word I’ve always known, but to describe you, it seems as if I kidnapped the word from the dictionary and put it beside your name. oceans eleven adaptation with a much more romantic, symbiotic flare. your name; carved into a tree, that tree being my spine. there’s a handful of metaphors here, but i promise you they eventually line up into a grand scale acid matte forest picture that is hung across an enormous gallery, in a bio-rich environment (also probably the size of a football field). i always wanted to take you to a gallery. i ALWAYS pictured you in the same clothes i first saw you in. perhaps, this is reflexive because that’s when i first fell in love with you. swishy, flowing flower dance pants that had little flowers move every time you moved in ways, that made me admire the time you seemed to put in, to be able to move like that, and uncomfortably made me wonder if anybody was watching my voyeuristic daydream. you also sported a navy blue top. oh, yes, when i first fell in love with you. I skipped over that. for good reason. can i interrupt this story with a guttural roar? thinking about what i’m going to continually write, and how i’m dealing with this right now is fucking terrifying.

i remember the first time i got the flu. I felt like absolute garbage. I didn’t’ know it was the flu, and for quite some time my invincibility got the best of me. I just thought I was having an off day. Until a trip to the doctors confirmed that I was fucking dying. (not really, but i was able to take a deep breath because I knew my feeling like shit was indubitably justifiable). That’s what it was like falling in love. It wasn’t love at first sight, either. I felt I had seen you before. I definitely prayed that you existed. For a world in which you don’t exist, isn’t really a world where I want to be writing love poems, at all. I magnified everything about you and tried to find a flaw. Too short, maybe? Too good at dancing? Maybe her fashion sense isn’t great? Those flowers do look great on her. I wonder if she likes flowers? What type of flowers? Gardenias. Fast forward to me plucking off petals in a panicking sweat, like Alfalfa. ‘she loves me, she loves me not, she loves me, she loves me not, she lov..” Until, I mentioned alfalfa and you would, without hesitation rehearse the little rascals, in, what would be your impersonation of alfalfa

” Dear Darla, I hate your stinking guts. You make me vomit. You’re scum between my toes! Love, Alfalfa.”

I fucking melted. If it wasn’t this, it was another movie quote, or another saying, or another obscure gesticulation, or body movement, eye twitch, hand movement, that only someone who is my age could even fathom of knowing. Literally. No one, in no time ever again on earth will be able to naturally grow up in the same culture that I did, the same climate, the same rhythm, blues, patriarchy pettiness, matriarchal madness, nothing will ever be what it is now. Latino American, We can get smidgens of what is it; mutations, descendants, meshes, clones, but we will, as a collective species embrace this again, we can pass down as many things to our children but time will erode things to its liking. They won’t understand the same things we do: neither will their kids to them, and so forth. We just have words, memories erased when we die. Rhymes, poems, love stories, imaginations that could never quite picasso the same abstract unique quarrel that is my life. our lives. east coast united states, first gen, denizens, half pop culture, mestizo, indigenous, african, half salsa, tumbado. food, the smell of beans, sudado, only to venture outside the safety of those prison walls to be met with xenophobia, racism, doubt and overarching theme of resistance, rebellion, anarchy, unpleasant prejudice, ignorance, naivety of people like me, expansion of my role in colonialism. by merit, by force. he best pizza on the planet, the culture. the arroz con frijole types, hojas, plátano, maíz, flor. deconstructed into twisted, warped family structures we build on whatever beam we can find. poverty stains and opportunity. chameleon dna. i’ll metamorph into anything my ego finds suitable. anything that will save me. we save ourselves. we find safety in this- this latinidad. this obscure robust sanctity, this sanctuary, of sanguine, saliva and saline tears. it will almost never happen again. no matter how many constellations, no matter the lining of planets with god names. no matter what trillionth our chance falls on. that’s the real gem. the real diamond in the abyss. the rough. those odds are quite literally, towers, leaning over. they’re staggering. Not just staggering – theyre fucking improbable. It shouldn’t exist. they’re literally impossible. if you do the math. I could get struck by lightning four hundred times. IN AN HOUR. That’s literally 6 times a minute. So, well, all right. I might’ve made that statistic up, but i’m sure you want to believe it. im sure it could be true somehow. and that’s all that matters. Almost. it’s almost what almost matter. believing. i believed the furrows, the creases your skin made when you mouthed word, i recognized them, they were only formed when something impossible was being said. Also, the football field club metaphor, and that my spine is a tree she carved her name into. Let’s not forget those. those are crucial. and, to the story, it’s almost mind-blowing to even think of it in such a manner. But, to think, I’m writing this at 2.a.m. The earth spins, it’s on its beyond trillionth rotation. time doesn’t stop. it’s the ticking that’s maddening. My emotions that continue that rebel against the madness. I’m sure we think about each other at the same time, sometimes. (you’d just have to think of me once, though.) and, i’ve heard when you think about someone for more than 5 seconds, that, they’re thinking of you too. You make, or made me feel… so many perfectly balanced, diversely distributed, good things. good as in being subjective. that I personally, feel selfish for personally, exclusively taking time to be grateful to be able to feel it at all. Random moments during the day my eyes well up with water, like plants with condensation, a prick when you get your shot, or river banks when the earths crust becomes saturated with a long awaited storm. I’m happy that I could feel this. I didn’t think things I wrote about so passionately would be true, or could become true, or even be scribbled onto paper. Imagine a fantasy writer finally being able to cast a spell, to have his inner desires devalue reality. to be able to spawn trees, or water without having to deal with nature, or time and space. it’s godlike, immeasurable scale of truth. it feels forbidden, like walking into cerberus’s playpen in the dark, or remove the shell from our hearts. or move mountains, that have made home on a tectonic plate, and years of erosion. you made a poet into a fantasy writer, in one fell swoop, just by being yourself. by breathing. moved mountains I didn’t think could move, and you have me so spellbound, hell-hound.

Published by Cristian Leonardo

Poetry and writing, rhyming and story telling. Depth, and simplicity. Painfully honest. Dreadfully playful.

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