i should start off by saying that this is for you, and only you.
i write lots a pretty words and say lots of pretty things- most are regurgitations of
previous poems, thoughtless thoughts of those around me, and romanticized philosophy.
that’s not what i’m going for here.
i. i ******* love that you’re a reader. the way your eyes glow gold despite the deceptively dark brown makes me wet- when you talk about words that is. the letters leave your tongue and i taste them on mine, spicy-sweet.
i’ve always liked the adrenaline of the risky burning sensation, and still, i can’t seem to shake my sweet tooth.
so this seems like the perfect arrangement.
ii. you split my skull
and read the coffee-stained pages
better than i ever could.
iii. i don’t know how it should make me feel.
i worry about things like that though,
you know this (and i hate that you do).
i feel the pages falling from my weathered binding, from too many reads.
too many ***** fingers skimming metaphors about porcelain for skin and cracks for scars,
similes about a heart like my favorite charred marshmallows,
and onomatopoeia to resonate high frequency cries for meaning/help/love.
you hear me, though.
you don’t skim or race to ******
you caress every soft curve, letting your fingertips trace the letters. you rewrite them into existence, as if to say, “They are here!”
and in the margins you give them new tenderness-
new
forgiveness.
iv.
you tell me to stop saying sorry
but, there’s this need for redemption
i can’t shake.
you see, i’ve never walked straight enough
or smiled bright enough
or been good enough-
to keep anything in my life.
and i know that that’s what life is about.
but something in my soul screams
to be that hiding place, for someone.
where they can write all their secrets and cliche notions, store the memories they can’t bear to lose or look at, and keep them safe.
when i’d sleep, i’d visit the museum of that hiding place.
and spend hours
looking at the polished artifacts-
and the dusty ones too.
i’d study them
so that when i’d wake up,
i could take that someone on a tour.
this time, not alone.
think of the things we’d learn.
v.
we’d revisit their history, i’d explain the relevance of each
for you,
we’d see
the skeletons of loves and lives lost, the wax figures not accurate enough to bring them back.
the coping mechanism prototypes recalled for their danger to society and the casket you tried to bury yourself in when they hurt too much.
the ancient scrolls of your past lives, written in a language i’d spend my life learning if i could speak it fluently with you.
the broken ceramic plates from the steak & shake we worked at- i was horribly clumsy, accidentally throwing things at you when you looked the other way. i never wanted to hurt you, and somehow, we always manage to laugh.
vi.
speaking of which
the way you laugh
like you don’t deserve to, but **** it you’re gonna do it anyway.
first of all, you do deserve to.
second, it’s the brightest light i’ve seen in my life. we’ve both spent too many days alone at sea, thunderclouds purpling the heavens and drowning our breath. but, somehow, you make this lighthouse laugh- and your smile splits through the storm.
i’d follow it home
and third, i’m sorry
i’m not close enough to tickle it out of you.
quite literally- i’d spend days and nights doing so, given the chance.
less literally-
i’m sorry
i’m too far and too late
to make up for the tickle days
i wasted.
vii.
i don’t know what this means
to you/for us
i don’t know lots of things. i don’t know why it drives me crazy. and
i don’t know why you do either.
viii.
i just know
i wanted to tell you.
(then and now)
Apr 30, 2019
Apr 30, 2019 at 2:35 AM UTC
i should start off by saying that this is for you, and only you.
i write lots a pretty words and say lots of pretty things- most are regurgitations of
previous poems, thoughtless thoughts of those around me, and romanticized philosophy.
that’s not what i’m going for here.
i. i ******* love that you’re a reader. the way your eyes glow gold despite the deceptively dark brown makes me wet- when you talk about words that is. the letters leave your tongue and i taste them on mine, spicy-sweet.
i’ve always liked the adrenaline of the risky burning sensation, and still, i can’t seem to shake my sweet tooth.
so this seems like the perfect arrangement.
ii. you split my skull
and read the coffee-stained pages
better than i ever could.
iii. i don’t know how it should make me feel.
i worry about things like that though,
you know this (and i hate that you do).
i feel the pages falling from my weathered binding, from too many reads.
too many ***** fingers skimming metaphors about porcelain for skin and cracks for scars,
similes about a heart like my favorite charred marshmallows,
and onomatopoeia to resonate high frequency cries for meaning/help/love.
you hear me, though.
you don’t skim or race to ******
you caress every soft curve, letting your fingertips trace the letters. you rewrite them into existence, as if to say, “They are here!”
and in the margins you give them new tenderness-
new
forgiveness.
iv.
you tell me to stop saying sorry
but, there’s this need for redemption
i can’t shake.
you see, i’ve never walked straight enough
or smiled bright enough
or been good enough-
to keep anything in my life.
and i know that that’s what life is about.
but something in my soul screams
to be that hiding place, for someone.
where they can write all their secrets and cliche notions, store the memories they can’t bear to lose or look at, and keep them safe.
when i’d sleep, i’d visit the museum of that hiding place.
and spend hours
looking at the polished artifacts-
and the dusty ones too.
i’d study them
so that when i’d wake up,
i could take that someone on a tour.
this time, not alone.
think of the things we’d learn.
v.
we’d revisit their history, i’d explain the relevance of each
for you,
we’d see
the skeletons of loves and lives lost, the wax figures not accurate enough to bring them back.
the coping mechanism prototypes recalled for their danger to society and the casket you tried to bury yourself in when they hurt too much.
the ancient scrolls of your past lives, written in a language i’d spend my life learning if i could speak it fluently with you.
the broken ceramic plates from the steak & shake we worked at- i was horribly clumsy, accidentally throwing things at you when you looked the other way. i never wanted to hurt you, and somehow, we always manage to laugh.
vi.
speaking of which
the way you laugh
like you don’t deserve to, but **** it you’re gonna do it anyway.
first of all, you do deserve to.
second, it’s the brightest light i’ve seen in my life. we’ve both spent too many days alone at sea, thunderclouds purpling the heavens and drowning our breath. but, somehow, you make this lighthouse laugh- and your smile splits through the storm.
i’d follow it home
and third, i’m sorry
i’m not close enough to tickle it out of you.
quite literally- i’d spend days and nights doing so, given the chance.
less literally-
i’m sorry
i’m too far and too late
to make up for the tickle days
i wasted.
vii.
i don’t know what this means
to you/for us
i don’t know lots of things. i don’t know why it drives me crazy. and
i don’t know why you do either.
viii.
i just know
i wanted to tell you.
(then and now)
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