don't touch me
I'll take your name and tie the ribbon around my eyes
don't call me
I'll make your hands the collar around my neck
take heed and
give me nothing
for I will make you my everything

if I could hold my breath
and become the spackle on the wall

I would

if I could paint myself into the background noise

I would

yet somehow
sans any concurrence
I am dragged into the spotlight
notions of wonder and gold dancing beyond my eyelids

I'm told I'll be glitter and gold and all things good
but to hang as a portrait on the wall

aye, I would.

when did your eyes stop glittering
like the stars did when I point them out every night
like the hope that sits with her net of dust on the shelf to the left
after a while
I haven't a clue how to fill this role anymore
how many seashells should I bring to show you before you finally decide to leave?

like the tides
I push and pull,
scream and shout,
my strength washes ashore,
shining in the sun,
glistening amongst the rocks
grab it,
quickly now
before the tide comes back in to wash this beach clean
hurry now
before the current carries it away
never knowing where it might wash up again.

But what defines it?
Are there rules?
Who started them?
Most of all, is it real?
Is there really a reason?
Or, is this just like everything else?

do fires kiss my skin's senses not when I should be kept back at a spines distance
not when I solicit crimson splashes
from transients that gaze longingly
from a screens distance
but for the aftertaste of tenderness
I often wonder if the inferno that burns in a particular shade of loneliness
could be extinguished with nothing more
than what you call a "hug"