Tuesday, March 14, 2017

this isn’t really a poem, it just goes on and on

maybe one day I’ll be able to say exactly what I feel

but for now all I can do is write metaphors and similes and fling comparisons around madly in a desperate attempt to make you see what I see and make you feel what I feel.

Just tell me what you want to hear.

you are ultimately enamoring. a perfect thing glowing in a world of dust and dirt, you cut through the haze like a searchlight in the woods after being lost for days, starving and dehydrated, its the pure feeling of relief that you’ve crawled out of hell and someone has found you.

it’s funny really; you have such a hard shell, covered in spikes and gouges and barbed wire, and all I can compare you to is flowers and butterflies.

I’ve never been so touched by the affection of another person. I always considered myself not really one for sweet words or touching, simply because I’ve never wanted it. Never possessed it. But that’s the thing, see, now I know what it’s like to want to hold someone, what it’s like to crave the scent of someones clothes and what it’s like to be overflowing with feelings that try to fit themselves into words.

I’ve found a new fear in all of this. I fear in my desperate typing away you’ll grow tired of me. You’ll become numb to the things I say and when I finally get it right you’ll be unmoved, not an eyebrow twitch or creak in the corner of your mouth because I’ve over done it, smothered and suffocated you and robbed the meaning from my own voice.

I’m trying to be careful. To save the biggest words for special times, not waste anything, not wear anything out.

but even with that fear present I find myself unable to tear away from writing about you every night. It’s freeing and full of good feelings and I want to share them now that I found someone who wants them. so here I sit, curled up and tacking away at the laptop keyboard.

Just tell me what you want to hear.

I could write again about the far away galaxies your eyes hold,

or about the decorated silk you call your skin.

I could write about the way you move,

how your hands work with a delicate contrast to their rough edges
I could write about your hurt and your secrets,

and how I want to take them and keep them so you never feel pain
I could write about the way time stops when I’m with you,

the way your smile over a cup of coffee makes my heart melt.

Just tell me what you want to hear. I’ll write novels, sequels, series, volumes about you, any and every part of you. Just tell me which parts to start with.

Do you want to know? Do you care that looking at you is like laying outside at 2 am, staring through a clear summer night into the ever-growing universe? That the depth in your eyes is greater than any field of stars ever witnessed by humans?

Does it move you if I tell you your skin puts the finest furs and velvet to shame? That every scar and mark and fleck on your body is more valuable than the finest works of art in any museum, and that my hands could never be worthy to spend as much time on you as they do?

Do you hear anything when I tell you about your own movements, when I note out-loud the twitch of your wrist? Do you notice the way I crave your absent minded drumming on my thigh when you drive? Tapping your thumb to the radio as if that were the most natural place to rest.

Does it even matter that I’m enraptured by your hands, more than anything I’ve ever been drawn to? That the careful movements and intricate lines make me wish I could spend the rest of my life looking them over, exploring every dip and crease and callus and cut on them.

Would you care if I told you I fall deeper when you open up? Your stories are raw and burning fires that destroy the trees that have worked so hard to grow, to hide the things on the forest floor. That your whole being rips apart the facade that I was so fooled by and pulls me in by my throat, catching me and keeping me and I never want to leave.

Could I make you feel the way I feel if I took all your hurt and torment and buried it deep inside of me, safe from ever getting to you again? If I took your place at the whipping post and hid you away where no one could injure you, no one could maim or tear at you without going through all of me first.

Do you know you make everything unreal? That being with you is leaving one world to enter another, time changes and stress dissolves and not a single problem I have carries over. Floating through that field of stars and listening to you teach me something I never knew I wanted to know.

Would you believe me if I said you make a crowd feel private? That the tilt of your head in a packed coffee shop is like being underwater, all the voices are muffled and far away and my breath catches in my throat. I can barely breathe because the sight of you with your hands resting on the table and the turn in your cheek when you look at me makes me feel like I’m a thousand miles away from the people right next to me.

Just tell me what you want to hear. I’ll go on for days if I have to, if it makes you understand.

you’re a wolf above me, pinning me to the ground and snarling over my throat. your teeth tear at my ribcage and devour my heart, leaving the rest of me to stumble out into the world, bleeding and confused. I wander aimlessly trying to catch a glimpse of you, see where you’ve made off to with my soul and being, I don’t want it back. I just want to see you.

you’re the raven at the top of the dead tree I lay under, guttural cries floating down to nestle among the needles around me. I wish I could climb up there to meet you, to see how you see things from so high up. There are no branches low enough for me to reach, so instead I bring baskets of praise, in the hopes to convince you to come down and eat from them.

you’re the fox, quick and fleeting on the forest floor. I stagger and fall trying to keep up with you, skin my knees and cut my hands on the branches and rocks you so nimbly avoid. you flick and turn and laugh back to me, enticing me to keep following, even when my legs ache and my palms bleed, if only for the opportunity for my fingertips to graze the tip of your tail.

you’re the bull elk too. with your harem of cows behind you, you lower your head to me, mouth open and steam rising from your nostrils as saliva drips. I know it’s a threat, I know it’s a deterrent, and yet I convince myself that reaching forward to place my hand between your eyes would be all I needed to be happy. To touch you gently in the woods.

Just tell me what you want to hear.

who are you

You know looking at you is infuriating.

You have all these interests and desires and passions and they are solely and completely you, with no outsiders barging in and pushing around and no other voices telling you to stop or look at something else.

And this is the first angry piece I’ve ever written.

Because I’m fucking lost here, I have no idea who I am or where I’m going or what I like. You could ask me what my interests are and I honestly can’t tell you because I don’t know. I’ve only ever done what I do because it looked good on someone else.

I have no emotional attachment to any of my parts
There’s no passion or desire in the things I do because I don’t care if I do them. and you sit there with your god-damned optimism and reassuring “there-there’s” and “I’ve been there’s” and it makes me want to scream because what do you know!? Everything about you is perfect and durable and carefully etched and placed so what the hell do you know?

Other than everything there is to know.

I genuinely have no idea what I want, what I like. I don’t have aspirations, I don’t have dreams or desires, I don’t want to pursue things. I don’t care what color my hair is or what clothes I wear or what I eat because everything is kind of greyish anyways and in the end it all looks the same.

And you tell me you want my words.

Want to be able to put words on things like I put words on things but the only thing I can put words on lately is you because you’re the only thing I know I want. So I sit and I write and write, poem after poem about your eyes and your skin and your hair and how you breathe and I haven’t written a single thing that wasn’t about you since I fucking met you.

It’s the most productive I’ve ever been.

The most beauty I’ve ever seen in the cold dead world that I love to hate so much. I catch my breath at the tops of hills because I think things are beautiful again and I watch the sun dance off the ice in the driveway and instead of dreading the cold I take the time to appreciate the sting in my fingertips and how it hurts my lungs. I shiver and freeze my ass off because you made me think things are pretty.

Who the fuck do you think you are?

Who are you, to come into my life and twist things around and put my feet back under me. To pick me up off the ground and dust me off and smile and drag me onto another day, like everything will be okay because you’re here now and I can lean on you. Who does that?! Who does that for another person? Just waltzes into their life all nonchalant and ends up being fucking charming and poetic.

But my god does it feel good to feel good.

I spend all day turning phrases over in my head trying to find the one that fits you that day, I want to sing them to you in the quietest whisper and tell you how hard I worked on them and I can’t seem to do that. Instead I write and write and publish them on a little blog lost to the internet and then send them to you unwarranted at three in the morning because I’m awake again and thinking about you and I can’t help myself from reaching out to try to touch you one more time, even if it’s just with a few sentences.

At least it’s something. At least I can feel something.

I wish I knew how to say thank you. I look at you and see someone who fought the battles I’m fighting and figured it out and is strong and smart and I feel like maybe, just maybe, I have a chance at this. Because here’s someone in my life who’s done it already, and whatever gods I have to thank that this same person is so incredibly captivating and absolutely beyond what I thought the possible realm of human beauty was, and to have this stay in my life not because I’ve tied it down but because it wants to be?

If I’ve never felt happy before, at least I have it now.

soft and blue

picture this;

the softer tones of a heating unit,
set to “on” overnight.
and the glow of a street light
through the sheer white curtains
that hang and billow above the blowing air.

it’s a low hum,
and the sound of the blankets when I stir
is practically deafening in the night.
the air filling my lungs sings quietly
and tries to harmonize with yours.

everything is grey and blue

your throat catches and makes me look up
where you sleep, with your eyelids dancing.
there’s just enough glow
from the muffled streetlight through the window
to light the side of your face.

it feels unimaginably soft
your shirt, your hair, the skin on your side
where my fingers crawl up under the hem
and find their way to your spine,
your shoulders, your spine, your waist, repeat.
breaking to kiss between your shoulder blades.

these stiff hotel sheets and white comforter
are the most luxurious nest tonight.
the hard white light from the parking lot
is a glowing full moon.
nothing could be any better than this.

than having you like this.

to feel so normal with you.
no itineraries or schedules, nothing to do or see
just freedoms and liberties and opportunities
and sinking my trust into you.
placing it like a boat on your chest,
it rocks on the waves of your breathing.

you are so far beyond me.

how can i possibly describe what you possess,
when you take the words from my throat?
an old god, wealthy with knowledge
and blissfully unworried, who rests among mortals
because he finds them charming to watch.

or an emperors lion,
loyal to few and servant to none.
ferocious and respected by the highest powers,
with a rolling stride and lazy intimidation
who licks his teeth in the face of danger.

you’re so much more

as I lay here in the glow of the streetlight
I am overwhelmed by everything you are.
I cannot find the words to describe how intense
it feels to be next to you, with my hands on your royalty,
your trust on my chest.

I’ve never slept so close to a wolf,
with his soft maned neck and piercing eyes.
a sigh escapes him and I curl my fingers into the fur,
bury my face in the wild safety of him.
a god, a lion, a wolf.


I’ve found
in the dark hours of the night when I lie awake
and stare at the ceiling
my mind wanders gently into your river
and let’s the current tug at my ankles.

the soft
that you feel with your chest against mine and
your mouth on my skin
when your eyelashes kiss against my knees,
it’s then I feel the water rise.

it’s toying
my waist, tempting and whispering to me to
go out deeper, get pulled under
let my whole self be swallowed by your rapids
and devoured by your waves.

before I
what’s happened, the water wraps my neck.
a delicate necklace of pearled drops
dance up my jaw and pull down the strands of hair
they land on when they leap at me.

and I
going to let go, let my feet slide out from under me,
let your smooth cold water muffle the
screaming angry world past your banks.
fade away and never be seen again.

rivers tell no secrets.

wolf in the woods

every inch of my skin
every strand of hair
my shirt, my jeans, my jacket
is filled and composed of
the smell of… (what is it, what is it?) you.

that collosus of heavy machinery draped in velvet.

I have no skin left where
I’ve been touched by that fabric,
only rolling fields of poppies and clovers.
your eyelashes kissing each other as they touch
and you can see me (my god, can you really see me?)

A wolf hunched in the woods, hungry and staring.

I’ve never felt so quiet
and so thunderously loud as well.
your claws crawling over my thighs and hips
are a stark contrast to the butterflies and honey
that drip from your teeth. (please, never stop whispering)

a mountain range with only a single unmarked pass.

so many things, the way your head falls back
and you look at me from under heavy eyelids.
steel-laced crystal birds swirling in flocks and droves,
the obsidian center pins in the light and I can see
entire worlds within them (I could drown in them)

unwavering gaze of the hunting eagle, circling the sky.

((I have this image of your essence in my mind,
a feeling with no description or definitions.
it’s a great and hulking shadow, with wide shoulders
and a heavy gait, it moves slowly and deliberately.
A stoic beast with modesty overpowering its royalty))

my hands grasp and claw at the words I don’t have
to explain how my heart tightens at the sound
of you sinking into the pillow and coaxing out a sigh
after you release my mouth from your own
and leave your taste on my teeth (something sweet and smoked)
a heavy fog on a lake, engulfing everything it touches.

the white smoke from your lungs dances over my knees
held to your chest, existing in a state of only calm
and comfort, a precious refuge in a violent storm.
its cold, and captivating, and it fills my lungs with
the concentrated smell of you (heavy and erotic)

a castle standing among the rubble, a lone survivor of fate.

I can’t help but sing sweet thoughts to you between breaths,
running my hands along that luxe velvet,
feeding the wolf.

smoke and steel (iron and silk pt2)

I’ve never looked so fondly
at something tremendous and frightening
until I looked at You.

A fortress in front of me
your heavy steel split the blurry sky
the walls climbing higher the longer I stared.
As heavy as they were
they creaked and groaned in the wind
and the waves rocked and crashed.

I sat in the shore of the lake you lived in.
Like the steel, the water hid you,
and even more what writhed within you.

And as I sat with the water kissing my ankles
I felt the predator for the first time,
the heart of the castle on a bed of fear.

I heard it.
The smoke spilling over your armor,
finally seeing me.

Curling around me
softly and sweetly it made me promises
And filled my lungs with burnt sulfur and honey.

Wrapped around me and pulling me forward
into the waters that churned and foamed
it led me toward You.

The smoke was feathery and burned my skin
but you had no body now
so what good was mine?

The water kept me still among the swells
more violent now than when I was safe before
and far away from the howling steel in front of me.

And it was among the screams of the walls that I finally saw You.

It was not the smoke that whispered coquetries
dancing over my skin
and leading me out.

It was not the steel that roared
and tore the clouds apart
to drive them into the water.

It was You.

The soul of the structure
captive and imprisoned in your own creations
pacing the floor and suffering alone.

Sinewy heart locked away in your figure
with gnashing teeth and a lions rocking gait
scouring the cell you’ve chained yourself to.

Fearsome you would be
if the blood on your face
had not been your own.