i am an empty bottle of ***** do not touch me i will shatter i am the bottle of pills you stop yourself from taking every night so do not touch me i will break into a thousand pieces i am the book you have read 17 times over and still cry when you read the ninth sentence of page 243 so do not touch me i will tear i am the mirror you look into every time you splash your face in the bathroom so do not touch me i will not bring anything good i am the puzzle you found underneath your grandmas bed when you were seven that no matter how hard you searched you could never find the sixth piece down fifth piece across from the right so don’t you dare touch me because i will never be ******* complete

Why did you have to pull me in like this?
Why couldn't you be like every other girl?
Benign? Impermanent?

You were untraditional, unorthodox,
You became air where there was none,
Water where there was only dust

And then you told me that you were sick,
And nothing brings two people in like illness,
All of a sudden everything changed

I've never felt like much of a father figure,
But ******* you made me care like one,
Probably why it's still so agonizing

And I'm still tasked with laughable ideas
Like "letting go" and "moving on"
And I know that there's no alternative

There is no room for me in your life,
You've set sail for new waters,
And I'm simply left to drown

Sometimes I like to wonder,

does my pen move
the same way as yours?

Does it
             dance?
Does it
             sing?

                        Does it
impel a grateful piece
of paper to smile,
and laugh out
tiny bubbles of its dream
to be admired in the Louvre?

Or does the paper bleed
angry droplets of deep-coloured
ink-blood from its ink-heart
from its ink-soul; or does it cry
little black tears
from its dark fountains of literature?

Does the paper feel
all of these things
as you sketch your last
line
or as I write my last
word?

What then, when every one of your pictures
makes words in the thousands?
How many more chunks of eternity
can you paint versus my poetry?


                    Yet you say I understand you.


Sometimes what you paint
flickers like in the movies,
and every frame

makes me wonder

if the way my pen moves
is just something someone animated
in her free time instead of studying.
Maybe then it wouldn't be too much
to say that sometimes
you sketch me into life.

Maybe then, this is why, sometimes


                    you say I understand you.


Even if I can barely hear your oxygen
over the noise of glittering pixels
that often disappoint us when we seek
more
than these strange profundities online,
where emotion is a commodity
and not ink... not paper...

It doesn't matter.

Because maybe my pen
was sketched by you.

And maybe
your poetry, your art
Dances. Sings. Smiles.
Laughs. Bleeds. Cries.
                                     Breathes.


                    So you can as well.

We live in our corners
in our moments of existance
in our persistence of everyday word

But what would I give
for at this moment
to be dancing all alone with you

To hold you to my chest
as we sway listening
to the charms of the music

Under shooting stars
we make dearest our wishes
Oh ! how silly we are

And for a moment
to bend down to kiss
warm wet lips you have

How can your cheek
be so soft to my touch
I must claim this find as my own

Come dance in my arms
and kiss with your charms
as we simply float away

She is my Angel.

Because she is my Angel;
I know we will never be able to touch,
I know we will never be able to be in each others arms,
I know we will never kiss.
The saddest thing is.  We will never be able to dance.

But I am so very joyful, she came into my life and
Guards my heart and soul day and night.

Yes, I love my Angel.

Copyright © Ronald J Chapman All Rights Reserved.