This is because
I will never be good at touching
And because
You will never be good with words
And because
With your beautiful mind
You might never even be able to understand this poem
And what I’m trying to tell you.

I am
Not
Trying to tell you that I love you
Or that I want to spend forever with you

Actually,
I’m perfectly fine
With falling asleep alone
In my oversized bed
And writing poetry at two in the morning
While you play a gig.

And actually,
I’m perfectly fine
With being the one who does all the planning
To make sure that we can work around
Your busy schedule.

What I am trying to tell you is
That no matter how many times I have to look at you funny
When you spout random trivia,
I am always proud
Of the things that you know.

What I’m trying to tell you is,
No matter what other people say,
I am always proud
When you tap drum solos
On my hand.

What I’m trying to tell you is
That I am entirely captivated
By you
And your beautiful mind.

It starts with a Rhythm.
Fast,
Like running.
Like a Traumatizing event.
Like first breath,
After a long time without air.

Or slow,
like the relaxation after a good,
You know.

It's hardly a sound,
More a feeling.
The concept of things falling into place.

I could be better at keeping things together.

Then come the noise, the words,
the shouting and crying.
The singing,
Freewriting.
Thoughts that don't make sense don't follow a pattern don't have breaks or flow.

Words that define
Acknowledge
Make real
the World that we live in and the emotions that are,
Themselves,
Rhythm.

We can’t understand every stranger we meet
And furious waves destroy planes in the East
While back in the West the clock strikes the hour
And sometimes I think that my hands are on fire.

Where choice starving people want a free president
The army fights back and follows the precedent
That gave us a plaque where we once had two towers
And sometimes I think that my hands are on fire.

While grown-ups grow hushed about screaming asylums
Their children grow up dreaming in Bedlam
Looking for fairies behind folded flowers
And sometimes I think that my hands are on fire.

As a conservative man preaches border control
His wife remembers youth when she learned to roll
R’s in a family that balanced cultures on wires
And sometimes I think that my hands are on fire.

And though where I’m sitting the clouds are still white
And no one has called me to stand up and fight
To my close friends the situation’s not dire
Still sometimes I think that my hands are on fire.

A room full of AI
A room full of machines
Whirring, clicking- conversing, it seems
Fan motors argue, debates and simple means
Cogs meshed together, the technician, he beams.

Touch
With a certain Religious quality
That binds families together
And friends
And lovers
Holding each other
To fight off fear
In broad daylight.

Red and White and Blue
And distinctly
Beige
Brown and cracked
Like the Earth that you work
And plant medicinal herbs in

Herbs to sooth a dying man
With sweat-drenched brow
As you brush the hair from his face
Herbs to sooth a brand new mother
As her baby cries for comfort
And warmth
Of your touch

Smooth
Like the baby
Rough
Like the man
As you warm the body of my love
Still his shivering
And play music on his ribs

If I said
"***"
Out Loud
Would I get your attention?
You'd definitely get mine.