I conceive you with closed eyes.

your existence is not defined by the armor you wear
nor its dents and scratches
you are more than your limits and shortcomings
you are the first ray of sunshine
after a stormy spring
you are a cold gauze
on a skin filled with burns
you are the song I hear for the first time
and yet I've known it my whole life
you are every color in the spectrum
for someone who has only known black

when I imagine my future life
perhaps I don't see you next to me
but I feel you;
I know you're there
you are the only one who belongs there
and with time I realize -
that's all that matters.

I want perfection
I want that moment where our eyes meet
and neither of us can break the gaze
where our souls open to one another
like buds thirsting for the rain
where I see eternity, endless infinity
expand and share their secrets
from within you and know in that instant
that you see the same in me
I want that perfection of recognition

I want perfection
I want a shared empathy
an effortless telepathic connection
to feel that golden thread that links
all my chakras with all yours
I want to wake thinking of you
to drift into sleep doing the same
to know this is true for you too
and to meet even in our dreams
I want that perfection of synchronicity

I want perfection
I want to explore your body
to marvel at its complete perfection
even though you believe it imperfect
I want you to marvel too
at the perfection you see in this body
although I know it to be far short
I want to be consumed in mutual lust
to burn with your tastes sounds and smells
subsuming our senses into one another
I want that perfection of sensation

I want perfection
I want to run and work and sweat with you
to experience the joys of music, of performance
to travel with you to places of wonder
to inspire your creativity
to be inspired by you in every way
to reach new heights as yet undreamed
to remain forever grateful
for the gifts of your love
I want that perfection of complementarity

Cynthia Pauline Jones 4th May 2015

A young girl,
Face pressed against the glass
‘You’re too young to go in there.
You’re not allowed past.
You must wait outside and do no more than look in.’
But the glass is shattered,
it impedes my vision
And the shards tear through my skin.

The picture is too broken to see what went on,
Smeared blood obscuring where the damage came from.
I can see a clock on the wall,
Time is frozen
But the big hand points to you -
I can just make out you’re all there.

I scream
I bang
I cry for you.
I wound myself further in the confusion,
And when you finally look up from the confines you’re in
There is no movement.
Just a distant sign for me that says
‘stay strong’
I don’t understand what’s going on,
Strong for what, for who?
Why can’t I come in there with you?
Please someone tell me what’s happening.

I’m bleeding; you’re all bleeding,
But still I don’t know why.
Old enough to know the colours,
but too young for where they came from.
Close enough to hear the screaming,
too far from the cries.
Too young,
Too young.
Not young enough.

You were all on the hour and I am frozen at six,
the little hand
Behind that pain spattered pane that splintered my heart.

All of your blood was spilt too,
Just on the inside of the glass
By the clock in that room where you all were together,
That I was allowed to see,
but not to touch.
I wanted in,
but there was no choice,
My blood had to stay on the outside with the dust.

I want to tell him
that I’m scared,
that I’ve been here before.
And that the last time I felt potential like this it imploded;
I imploded.
But I don’t want to taint it,
You see I’m still hopeful
That maybe this time
Won’t end up laced with maybes,
Or what ifs,
Or open wounds pouring blood onto paper.
That maybe this time,
just won’t end.

I’ve not quite worked out whether I think it’s beautiful,
Or stupid -
The human capacity,
And pliancy,
And longing,
For love.