You would mumble that I don’t
get to appreciate all your efforts,
little or big, because I tend to just
keep myself silent, even when happy,
and keep them for myself, like a thief
hiding gold in his secret treasure chest,
no words, no thoughts for traces
that anyone can backtrack to, and forth,
but believe me, little honey, everything
you have for me is kept inside my bones,
under my skin, within the extra layers
of fats, in every fragments of myself
that I have offered to you. You have your
name etched in every single *****
sliding through the intestines
that would get upset when you kiss me,
and the taste of your surprises lingering
under my tongue, within the gums,
hardening the teeth, like enamels.
Pictures of you, of your existence,
bygone memories, of nostalgia
all carefully placed inside my skull,
like a delicate dinner meticulously
prepped, for us to feast on, on days,
and nights when we feel like no one.
You are the air inside my lungs,
like cigarette burning, exhale,
all the toxins filling the bags,
slowing down time, slowly.
You are still the good things
the good news like in masses,
you are the preach I listen to,
with everything about you,
I wear, on my arms, on my ankle,
like wooden bracelets we get,
you are laced around my neck,
like a scapular, you are my religion,
and like paint brushes, you are
painted all over my skin,
traces of forevers, images,
running down my cheeks,
down my sleeves, coating me.
You are time, with numbers,
I always try to count, unending,
with moments after moments,
like ripples in events, not through
ticks but through nights of becoming.
You are a prayer, not a hope or wish,
I mutter your name, every time,
for you are my voice, your strands
hang at every low and high note,
as if I understand one, but I know
there is you in pieces of me,
at the unmade tissues, the broken bones,
the painful limbs, burnt skin,
at the density of tears, the
intensity of laughter, the words,
I hear you, you play in my ears,
like a marching band, I always stop
to listen to your music. You are
the silhouette when I am against the sun,
a shadow, the light that embers
a corner of my brain, you ignite,
rays passing through window glasses,
you crawl not under, but through
my skin, and baby, believe me,
when you open me out,
you would find names of you
written all over my innards,
and there, you will know,
how much I have kept the love
that you have made me know.
May 19, 2014
May 19, 2014 at 4:16 AM UTC
You would mumble that I don’t
get to appreciate all your efforts,
little or big, because I tend to just
keep myself silent, even when happy,
and keep them for myself, like a thief
hiding gold in his secret treasure chest,
no words, no thoughts for traces
that anyone can backtrack to, and forth,
but believe me, little honey, everything
you have for me is kept inside my bones,
under my skin, within the extra layers
of fats, in every fragments of myself
that I have offered to you. You have your
name etched in every single *****
sliding through the intestines
that would get upset when you kiss me,
and the taste of your surprises lingering
under my tongue, within the gums,
hardening the teeth, like enamels.
Pictures of you, of your existence,
bygone memories, of nostalgia
all carefully placed inside my skull,
like a delicate dinner meticulously
prepped, for us to feast on, on days,
and nights when we feel like no one.
You are the air inside my lungs,
like cigarette burning, exhale,
all the toxins filling the bags,
slowing down time, slowly.
You are still the good things
the good news like in masses,
you are the preach I listen to,
with everything about you,
I wear, on my arms, on my ankle,
like wooden bracelets we get,
you are laced around my neck,
like a scapular, you are my religion,
and like paint brushes, you are
painted all over my skin,
traces of forevers, images,
running down my cheeks,
down my sleeves, coating me.
You are time, with numbers,
I always try to count, unending,
with moments after moments,
like ripples in events, not through
ticks but through nights of becoming.
You are a prayer, not a hope or wish,
I mutter your name, every time,
for you are my voice, your strands
hang at every low and high note,
as if I understand one, but I know
there is you in pieces of me,
at the unmade tissues, the broken bones,
the painful limbs, burnt skin,
at the density of tears, the
intensity of laughter, the words,
I hear you, you play in my ears,
like a marching band, I always stop
to listen to your music. You are
the silhouette when I am against the sun,
a shadow, the light that embers
a corner of my brain, you ignite,
rays passing through window glasses,
you crawl not under, but through
my skin, and baby, believe me,
when you open me out,
you would find names of you
written all over my innards,
and there, you will know,
how much I have kept the love
that you have made me know.
