I like looking at your face.
The colors appear
to me like a
soft glow.
Even the shadows
and the darkness
under your eyes.
Darker than
your cheeks.
Your lovingly flushed cheeks,
complimenting the shades of your eyes and lips.
Your lips. Your perfect, perfect lips.
I looked at your face and told you
"Perfect"
and you said,
"Nothing
is Perfect."
And I told you I didn't create that idea intentionally
That the word just
comes to me
again and again.
I didn’t ask but it just keeps popping in,
saying 'hello' to my mind and telling me
that "Perfect" is correct.
Every time I
look at you "like that"
––the way I do when you ask what I'm thinking––
I marvel at your complexion,
the assemblage, construction,
melding,
artistry of you.
Here. Here is what I am thinking:
I think of an artist––
Someone who sketches.
Someone who draws.
Not with charcoal. Something more fine.
Dark pencil, maybe. Or a quick, sharp pen.
Richly dark
Purposeful and Exact.
Because your lips are drawn
with perfect, simple, sharp symmetry
as if your artist knew
what was wanted
what was needed
and drew. Then left
because there was nothing more to add.
No,
if he left he must've come back
to look at you some more
like I do.
The quick strokes,
the genius behind his hand.
The brilliance of a movement of ink on canvas of skin.
Your lips are complete in their famously simple,
touch-and-look-how-kissable,
delighted,
red, red lips.
Your lips and cheeks go well together.
And your green-yellow-maybe-brown-too
eyes
With your naturally dark black eyelashes.
Straight.
The same artist who drew your lips
outlined your face. The lines are the
same. The style has forethought.
The skill used was confident and assured,
your artist. I can praise your artist
and do. Amazement
and I see how you study me
as I watch.
You can see me taking you in and I
like how we can just look at each other.
I like just to look.
Sometimes, yes,
I think other things...
but often, so often,
it is this.
I
contentedly study,
observe to understand
and embrace your being…
The more I look
and the more we feel
each other,
the closer I think I am
to reaching your soul.
Your base-level.
Soul.
... People should be more hesitant
in using that word.
It is used
too lightly,
too readily,
too frequently.
I doubt people
know a soul
as often as they think
they do.
Intimacy
is different.
A soul
is different.
But that's what I'm interested in.
I've gotten glimpses.
I am comfortable
around you.
We have a lot of fun together, don't we?
Huh?
But I like
that we can just be, too.
So.
That’s something I think.
There.
And I wish I could draw for you or paint or cut but writing is my medium, my form.
So I describe for you
how I can.
What I can
in words.
Mar 10, 2010
Mar 10, 2010 at 3:31 PM UTC
I like looking at your face.
The colors appear
to me like a
soft glow.
Even the shadows
and the darkness
under your eyes.
Darker than
your cheeks.
Your lovingly flushed cheeks,
complimenting the shades of your eyes and lips.
Your lips. Your perfect, perfect lips.
I looked at your face and told you
"Perfect"
and you said,
"Nothing
is Perfect."
And I told you I didn't create that idea intentionally
That the word just
comes to me
again and again.
I didn’t ask but it just keeps popping in,
saying 'hello' to my mind and telling me
that "Perfect" is correct.
Every time I
look at you "like that"
––the way I do when you ask what I'm thinking––
I marvel at your complexion,
the assemblage, construction,
melding,
artistry of you.
Here. Here is what I am thinking:
I think of an artist––
Someone who sketches.
Someone who draws.
Not with charcoal. Something more fine.
Dark pencil, maybe. Or a quick, sharp pen.
Richly dark
Purposeful and Exact.
Because your lips are drawn
with perfect, simple, sharp symmetry
as if your artist knew
what was wanted
what was needed
and drew. Then left
because there was nothing more to add.
No,
if he left he must've come back
to look at you some more
like I do.
The quick strokes,
the genius behind his hand.
The brilliance of a movement of ink on canvas of skin.
Your lips are complete in their famously simple,
touch-and-look-how-kissable,
delighted,
red, red lips.
Your lips and cheeks go well together.
And your green-yellow-maybe-brown-too
eyes
With your naturally dark black eyelashes.
Straight.
The same artist who drew your lips
outlined your face. The lines are the
same. The style has forethought.
The skill used was confident and assured,
your artist. I can praise your artist
and do. Amazement
and I see how you study me
as I watch.
You can see me taking you in and I
like how we can just look at each other.
I like just to look.
Sometimes, yes,
I think other things...
but often, so often,
it is this.
I
contentedly study,
observe to understand
and embrace your being…
The more I look
and the more we feel
each other,
the closer I think I am
to reaching your soul.
Your base-level.
Soul.
... People should be more hesitant
in using that word.
It is used
too lightly,
too readily,
too frequently.
I doubt people
know a soul
as often as they think
they do.
Intimacy
is different.
A soul
is different.
But that's what I'm interested in.
I've gotten glimpses.
I am comfortable
around you.
We have a lot of fun together, don't we?
Huh?
But I like
that we can just be, too.
So.
That’s something I think.
There.
And I wish I could draw for you or paint or cut but writing is my medium, my form.
So I describe for you
how I can.
What I can
in words.