I have begun to memorize, to imprint these fresh lines on the outside of my skull
Etching small, loopy letters into words,
I've turned you and your declarations into a poem.
I keep trying so hard to remember how you used to flirt,
"You win, Keely" you said to me after discussing weapons we'd use in medieval battle
The exact words you used to describe my hair,
I think it was, "golden locks" that you played with as they "spilled from underneath my helmet"
Your tone when I knew you were going to say,
"I love you."
If I could hire a scribe, give him my stolen money
I'd ask him to keep track of our dialogue, every whispered word
Maybe then I could grow you into a script
Perform you into a play, watch, critique
as some pretentious actor tries to impersonate your speech.
It never seems right coming from anyone but you.
You've turned me into an artist, you know.
I dream of light colored paints (your back in morning light)
dusty chalks (lazy days soaked in persistent, skunky smoke)
sticky oils (your body clung to me in lovemaking)
airless charcoal (your mischievous eyes)
All these pressing to my fingertips
Trying to explain you.
But I always desperately cling to this pencil
I only know how to love you through words.