Solemnly and silent In subtleties she calls to me Falling into my heart caverns And running through my veins Through my body And where I am she’s close to me Exuding watercolor dreams Like a painter reacquainting me With once greyish reality And every morn, I hear her sing In voice that constructs melody As if to say to newest sun To shine ever still All subconsciously And I would follow lyrically Each instruction as they ring Like notes in my mind harboring This subtle, silent calls to me
there is no way, impossible, to capture the fine single threads required to weave a tapestry of bold and delicate intertwined, of depth and surface, of a droplet of water shining outstanding in a sea of harsh blather.
there is bold, there is pale. they can coexist, perhaps even heighten each other.
but subtle is a delicacy, a single thread, a standard rarely achieved.
which is why this poem makes no pretense at subtlety.
clothed in darkness, i am robbed of my senses— though i am left with the sensation of your touches, i have become senseless undone, my defences— useless, with a single caress, a blushing mess, i try not to obsess over your intense pretense—
though all is in vain, you are relentless, and i am reckless.
She whispered in my ears all her broken dreams And I stood there, afraid. I did not move. She held me and she tore her fingers on my broken edges and as I tried to run away she Pulled me closer and watched the blood in some sort of fascination. Nothing scared her.
So I stood there watching the blood fall in red soundless drops and mix with her tears By her feet. She was angry at her tears. Because women don’t cry. She wouldn’t let me free myself from her grip and I said I did not want her to bleed any more But she would have none of it. She wants a man that will wipe her tears, she said- Tears are the blood of the unseen wounds And such are the wounds we need most protection from.
So I stood there, holding her. I tried not to move. I hoped that standing still would keep her hands from bleeding more but she ran her hands all over my jagged edges. She said that it was a metaphor. That it should mean something. But she kept crying and I fought myself off of her. I fetched her water to clean her wounds but she laughed and pushed it aside. Play some music instead, she said. The wounds I must clean are unseen- Only angels can fight demons Only beauty can erase the ugly And only light can ***** out the darkness.
So I played her some music.
And then I stood there watching her move her head along to that Lala Salama song Like certain worlds had been hidden in its words. She danced until the song was over and still she danced to the silence Her eyes closed and her head always shaking. Always.
When she was done she asked me what I had seen and I told her that I had seen her dance and that I had seen her close her eyes and that I had seen her sing along silently.
She jumped at me. She was angry. These are not the things you were supposed to see, she said. These are not the words you were supposed to say. And she opened the door and walked out.
Now I listen to that song. Maybe I shall hear what it is I was supposed to be listening for.
I will admit that I struggle with what I can't give to you. It bugs me. It eats me up inside.
I see the care and genuine respect that you show me and I want to react. But I can't. Not in the way I want to do so.
Believe me. I want to do so much. I want to make grand gestures, promise you the world, and say the things that my heart hides.
To do so, would please me, would stoke the embers of my soul.
But. ..it would station your life, and I won't do that.
Instead, I am focused on what I can do. It is not as if I can't show what I feel, to demonstrate it. I just have to be subtle.
I am, not by choice, but by need, committed to the slow burn. I will leave you with hints; with clues to piece together. I will beat around the bush and show you the meaning of restraint. Because THAT is what I can do.