Here. Attempting to write something To match your eyes.
Something that will make you see things The way I see things.
Noticing. Every mark. Torn by fences climbed To get away from those who didn't take your hand And fly. They left intricate laddered rips in your jeans, Though you try to hide the fact that you know, That I know that is the case.
We play childish games of denial Because all romance is to be transported to a time when we were innocent.
Back to a place where ‘I love you’ is what your parents said When all the screaming, laughter And the innocence of loud noises stop And is replaced by silence.
‘I love you’ made that warm feeling Growing and radiating out Eventually finding the tips of your fingers and ends of your toes And bursting out, Moving through to the next person you touch.
Contrary to popular practice, ‘I love you’ is not just three words to be said When you are trying to break the awkward silences Left between two people who have simply gotten used to each other.
I love red licorice. It gives me a warm feeling of sugary goodness. Though artificial, In the times when the weight of the world is the weight of your sheets That lay a top of your body Which you tell yourself over and over and over It is not good enough for that person Who gives you the inner warmth That a campfire gives your shins; I find that artificial red licorice warmth is good enough. And sometimes good enough is the best we can get.
Here. In the hope that the words that must be said Stream from ink to page. I hope my hand moves so fast over the page That smoke starts flowing and my words mean something...
But no words come. No letters. No ink scratches the page.