I have yet to make sense
of the muddled inks
that create your irises
A sort of a
composition
in chocolate
and oaky warmth
- not brown.
When searching
for a metaphor to describe you
the idea that circles back
and which I can not
nor will ever
be able to disregard
is that of an ice sculpture:
something for which you spend hours,
building up
only to watch it melt
helplessly
paralysed
I watched you
with her
helplessly
paralysed
I watched your temperature rise
and that husk around your heart
begin to thaw
like the way it did for me
And when I couldn't watch you anymore
when the pain became too great
that I had to deny myself
that pleasure of looking at you
with your chocolate composition
I turned away
and imagined you
imagining me
You are an ellipsis because you are possibility
You are plums stolen from the ice box
You are the forest, so lovely, dark and deep
You are the paragon of art
You, you talk like winter rain
You are like firm red grapes
like stretching
like that sunshine on winter mornings
but also like moonlight
in all its grace and purity and
love
you make me want to be a poet
if for reasons no more than wanting to impress you
They say that there is a place
on one's chest
that, when struck, stops the heart from beating
Feb 20, 2014
Feb 20, 2014 at 4:38 PM UTC
I have yet to make sense
of the muddled inks
that create your irises
A sort of a
composition
in chocolate
and oaky warmth
- not brown.
When searching
for a metaphor to describe you
the idea that circles back
and which I can not
nor will ever
be able to disregard
is that of an ice sculpture:
something for which you spend hours,
building up
only to watch it melt
helplessly
paralysed
I watched you
with her
helplessly
paralysed
I watched your temperature rise
and that husk around your heart
begin to thaw
like the way it did for me
And when I couldn't watch you anymore
when the pain became too great
that I had to deny myself
that pleasure of looking at you
with your chocolate composition
I turned away
and imagined you
imagining me
You are an ellipsis because you are possibility
You are plums stolen from the ice box
You are the forest, so lovely, dark and deep
You are the paragon of art
You, you talk like winter rain
You are like firm red grapes
like stretching
like that sunshine on winter mornings
but also like moonlight
in all its grace and purity and
love
you make me want to be a poet
if for reasons no more than wanting to impress you
They say that there is a place
on one's chest
that, when struck, stops the heart from beating