Words, the blood of poets. Slick, wet, hot, pouring over the page in a curtain of sultry satin red.
you are not a rose.
not pricked
in thorns
or cannibalized
for love
you are not a summer day.
if your eyes hold
a sunset
you keep it
well hidden
you are not a gift.
promise,
secret,
or encapsulated
by any singular
intent
you
do not fit neatly
into metaphor
(or my poet’s heart)
you are simply
(perfectly)
unique.
we trade making a scene
for quiet today
is the cessation of dreams
the price we must pay?
hold onto these words, less we forget
that a lifetime of almosts
is one of regret
the longer I live
the more that I find
the things I miss most
are the dreams left behind
not callous, not simple, not shallow or clothed
but bared and complex, deep and exposed
not careful, not silent, not restrained or delayed
but reckless and furied, freed and remade
not counting the rings in the circles I’ve walked
but remembering the falls and the chances I’ve stalked
you can promise the peace of a path well traveled and tested
and I’ll show you my scars where the best have been bested
now tell me you’re listening
and I’ll tell you this:
a life that’s worth living
is too easily missed
even though it’s closed
there must be another side
to this door
I’ve never seen it open.
but I know you went through it
I think –
you lean against it
listening
for my voice
even though its closed
there must be another side
to your story.
there are so many ways
for you to unfold
remember that fortune-telling game
at school
calling out numbers
and colors
to determine
what kind of house you will live in
hut / boathouse / mansion
life would be so much
simpler
if we limited to just
a few
options.
but anyone who has tried origami
can tell you.
even folding paper
is not simple
I can touch the night sky.
literally.
reach up with both hands
peel back the black
and reveal that stars
aren’t
really
stars
they are the dust of our dreams.
bright and powerful enough
to burn holes in the void.
(for L&L)
you want to disappear
but I know
all your
hiding
places
you want to be lost
but I know
it’s because
it means being
somewhere
new
you want nothing.
but I know
you really
want everything
you’ve just
been taught
not to ask.
you cannot say
“this is enough.”
when
the thought
of your thighs
makes the world
too small
to hold
my
hunger
you like to hold
your cup
like it might
shatter
if I speak.
I noticed today
that you put
all the glassware
behind the cereal
so I’m waiting
to see
if you ask me
for milk.
choked
on my words
placed
so delicately
upon your tongue
you are taught
to respect
prohibitions
by force
“what will you do
when my reach is so long
I can pluck your sins
like over-ripe cherries?”
your answer
is no answer at all
because you cannot speak
with my words
filling
and burning
your mouth