You call me darling, but:
Darling,
do not call me by that name,
I could not bear it if I tried.
That word is a pyre, and I—
I do not know how to burn
well enough.
Until I can swallow your absence whole
and live,
I will not lay a hand on you:
You who call me out of my trembling cloak
Of skin and muscle and bones,
Into the lissome folds of that tender night
To meet you.
Until I can meet your gaze without encountering some
small death,
I will not try to hold you:
weightless one,
Who I could never quite grasp anyway.
Until I can kiss your lips and remember
Where you end and I begin
I will not get lost in you:
Constellation of nerves and veins and sinews,
Strewn across the stars.
I have tried to love,
weightlessly,
But my heart is still heavy, my dear.
And I have tried to love you,
desperately,
Without the heaviness of desire
or the desperation of need,
But I have lost all substance on the pyre
Of self-denial, for indemnity.
Sep 2, 2014
Sep 2, 2014 at 5:01 PM UTC
You call me darling, but:
Darling,
do not call me by that name,
I could not bear it if I tried.
That word is a pyre, and I—
I do not know how to burn
well enough.
Until I can swallow your absence whole
and live,
I will not lay a hand on you:
You who call me out of my trembling cloak
Of skin and muscle and bones,
Into the lissome folds of that tender night
To meet you.
Until I can meet your gaze without encountering some
small death,
I will not try to hold you:
weightless one,
Who I could never quite grasp anyway.
Until I can kiss your lips and remember
Where you end and I begin
I will not get lost in you:
Constellation of nerves and veins and sinews,
Strewn across the stars.
I have tried to love,
weightlessly,
But my heart is still heavy, my dear.
And I have tried to love you,
desperately,
Without the heaviness of desire
or the desperation of need,
But I have lost all substance on the pyre
Of self-denial, for indemnity.
