But what if I want to say just
I like you.
Your eyes, how I can feel a core rigid beneath all your play
As if you've condensed all your jokes into something of substance,
like a diamond.
That I want to compare you to a diamond. that when I see you're home I get
happy.
That I'm spending a week away and half, at least
of what I'm going to think about is you.
That when I tell you my problems you actually have
something to say that makes me feel better.
That I look forward to your door like a bird
looks forward to the dawn so it can finally sing.
That I've started dreaming about you?
Should I really say what I want to say?
I want to keep this light,
cookies and cream against rich chocolate delight-
the beginning rays of dawn against midnight.
The drift of ink on paper against novels and history books.
You
Can I say what I want to say?
I want to know you slowly.
Like learning the horizon in a certain spot,
by waking up every morning and learning
how the dawn shapes the skyline of a city
learning every brick in that city.
But not in a frenzy.
I'd like to explore your depths... casually.
Too heavy?
Back off, just a moment.
I want to watch the light off your skin in
a thousand shades of day a thousand
angles to watch.
Back to the diamond thing.
Should I say what I want to say?
Telling you this would only seal you in,
a primer of expectations letting you know not what
color it will be but that soon some shade
will be applied to
you and I and I'd rather just
appreciate the color there now, rather than try and
paint you into some fairy tale I'll spin
expectations onto, the trailing cape of
a prince or the weighted click
of a clock over the course
of years, I don't want to tell you how this is going
to go in my mind before we get there I want to watch
the story unravel like the colors at dawn
behind a cityscape I haven't learned yet.