Newspapers are only covered in ***** print;
of despair and distress and danger playing master of our moves.
So I can’t talk to you through that.
Paintings are for love songs left unsung;
they are the inner kept journals of unrequited dreams,
scrawls of abuse or lumps of hurt, growing like tumours.
You wouldn’t understand.
So I can’t talk to you through that.
Music is only for the sunlit realm of lovers found;
of certainty and confidence and devotion above the sordid,
tangled affairs of wayward souls.
Living in a fantasy to escape the loneliness aching in soft spots inside.
So I can’t talk to you through that.
Letters are lost in nostalgia;
a celebration to be had, words unspoken for decades,
births and deaths, reserved for life events detailed in the past.
So I can’t talk to you through that.
Movies are just reenactments of dreams;
stunning heroes, masters of skill, justice seekers,
adventures of awe, loves broken but patched together with stronger yarn.
A world of little lies to helps better cope with heartache and grief.
We can’t immortalise ourselves in something
when it runs the risk of breaking.
So I can’t talk to you through that.
But I can do something much harder
then writing or filming or singing or painting…
I can give it all up, over to you.
I can trace patterns across your shoulders as you wake,
our special language which tells you I love you, I’m trying to trust you.
I can write you little notes, decadent words and sultry ideas,
and make a trail for you to follow to me.
I can be vulnerable in your arms, more than skin and internals
and a framework of bones.
I can be more real with you than I have never known to be possible.
It’s not just me showing how much I need you by the length I hold your kiss,
or how long it takes for us to disentangle ourselves from sleep, how often
we see each other naked.
It’s more the heart I dare draw on your skin with my lips.