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.

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