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I want to teach you
The language of my hands
For they can at times
Be so very much more eloquent than I
More subtle than my sometimes clumsy tongue
Less prone to stumbling or misstep.

Every touch can be a poem
There are volumes written
Upon the lines of palms
Comfort in the creases, reassurance
Love, desire, solace, all find voice
Buried in fingerprints.

All that I cannot speak
In the space where words fail
Or have not the proper definition
Let my hands tell you
By caress or grasp
Variations of pressure or attitude
In perfect, silent eloquence.

That way, even the simple
Lacing of fingers twining
In knots of flesh and bone and nerve
Can be a conversation
Between our pulse
The unsayable become known
Described perfectly
As a slight squeeze.
Like Magnets, I Can’t Quite Leave You
We were lovers in a past life
there is no other explanation
for this pull I feel for you
that you feel for me
We always end up in each other’s cages
eventually
but never, do we stick
It’s like a puzzle piece with no ends to connect
But in some past life
we were lovers that made it
in some past life
you died for me
in some past life
you make coffee for me every morning
in some past life
you put a ring on my finger
in some past life
we died together
Yes
we died together
I can almost remember it
So goodbye
if I never see you again in this life
maybe I’ll see you in the next
And maybe that time
we will be more kind
 Mar 2015 Patrick McCombs
HiJinx
"I've wanted more minutes in each day ever since I met you,"
I'm sure who wrote this, but I think it's quite relevant for when you first meet someone you're crushing on. Suddenly, even if you were to spend 24 hours with them, that isn't enough; and you're left wanting more of their company.
 Jun 2013 Patrick McCombs
Whitney
The man looks sympathetically in to my eyes
I do not want this man to watch me cry
He does not mean to be a bother
Not many people know what to do
with a girl without a father
It's hard to care about his feelings
when you can identify your own
only by the black tears soaking your face
the ragged sobs the only noise filling the air
But I don't care because what much else is there to do
when your father dies besides cry
The man makes a noise
a squeak of a thing
I would think him weak but how am I in the place
to say that.
My gaze is probably less than comforting
The sight of me is much more likely troubling.
"Would you like," he says, "some company? A member of
the family?"
What family
"A friend to
talk
to?"
How does he expect me to talk
when I can't breath?
Gasping gasping gasping
I can't read his expression through my tears
I can only interpret through my ears
Talking does not appeal to someone who's life is-
who knows what it is.
I part my lips
fighting off fits of rage and tears
ready to spear his feelings
No I deserve to endeer this alone
I don't need to burden others with my fears
my tears my sorrow my guilt
I built this whole life only for someone to

tear

it

down

Why drag someone else along with me?
"I"
choke
"I want"
choke

*I don't know what I want.
Computer
I adore
I adore your laugh
Even though I've heard it twice
I adore your smile
Even though I've seen it only a few
I adore your body
Because what I have seen and felt was perfection
I adore your hands
Because they made me feel like never before
I adore your touch
It is magical
I adore your voice
Because it is like no other
I adore your scent
Because it was contradicting-sweet and bitter

But really, truly
I just adore you.
She lives a quiet life,
she tiptoes around,
she whispers when she speaks,
she hardly ever makes a sound.

Although her words are quiet,
her mind is very loud.
She has so much to say,
but no one listens for soft sounds.

She's an invisible girl,
who doesn't want to stand out,
she just wants to be heard,
without having to shout.

Sometimes the loudest people,
aren't saying much at all.
Empty words and promises,
just leave their mouths and fall.

But whispered words fly high,
and catch peoples attention,
they're intriguing, so amazing,
but only when they listen.

So look outside the spotlight,
because often the real star,
isn't anyone on stage,
but the mind behind it all.
Only yesterday
Did I get to know your heartbeat
Only today
Did I become familiar with your breath
In
And out
A stable, rhythmic second hand
On the clock of our time together.
And tonight I will learn
Just how perfectly our bodies become one
But that second hand keeps ticking
Who knows how long it will last
 Feb 2013 Patrick McCombs
HooHa
The bartender, poor bartender, he fixes the drinks
For the music lovers, the cigarette bummers, the girls with the silly winks.
He smiles as he serves them all, but we know what he really thinks
As he runs his fingers through his hair, working out the kinks.
At my friend's debut show, I noticed the bartender would smile when he served drinks to all sorts of people. When they turned their backs, he would roll his eyes and run his fingers through his hair.
 Jan 2013 Patrick McCombs
Anne M
No matter how
you hold me, my forehead
always
seems to meet your
heartbeat—as if to reassure me
that you’re still there.
As if every part of us is
alive and desperate
to communicate it
with our gently shattering
bodies.

We’re breaking
but not broken.
Haunted, but not ourselves
ghosts.
The ridges of your thumbs
exorcise me
and I escape
the insanity
of my gossamer
thoughts.
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