Knees

It wasn’t until I was no longer afraid of being formless around you that it happened. I let go of the need to protect my sensitivity, I’m all dough, and cheese, soon as you begin speaking to me- my strength is no longer defined by its constant state but by its content’s state.

It wasn’t until the swords and rockets were relinquished, until the security force was extinguished in the freedom of being with you that I realized- I never had an issue with weakness. 

I’ve always concealed it, like a never ending game of hide and go seek, but under your touch, I spill all the secrets to the mystery. I shyly confess that I actually can’t do things. My force fields have always had holes and my desires have always had walls, if you crucify me I’ll bleed. Please. Stick your fingers into the road carved through my palms. I am weak.

And I am happy to let my weaknesses breathe, because each exhale sharpens my hearing as I’m lulled to sleep by your heartbeat.

Weakness was never the enemy.

Just the feeling of being vulnerable.

But even when I’m exposed, your light corrupts the negatives, and the true image of who I am is safe all over again.

A win win.

In my skin.

I think I’m in love with…

The Queen who brings me to my knees.

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Trembling

I thought it was the sunlight I was afraid of. The tenuous tremors of having my shadows stripped away from me at long last under the howling brilliance of your soothing glow. The embrace of arms I almost didn’t believe in, for they had only ever existed in my dreams.

You, were only ever a dream.

A euphoria without face or form, just an instinct in sync in me, assuring, that there was a blade which cut through midnight’s velvet touch. That the stars were prophets foretelling your love.

And so I thought it was the light I was afraid of. Refusing to admit ownership of the fear that, having survived the storm unto the rainbow, I would follow your scent into the clouds only to discover that rainbows don’t exist. Terror buried itself deeper in my heart, exorcising the last vestiges of hope from their sacred coves bordering the open sea of my soft place. The tender string only your fingers could pluck.

I thought I was afraid of this moment- to discover that I didn’t measure up. That the dream had found me, but I was immune to miracles. I thought this was my fear…

Until I saw a man with guitar heart- it was ripped to shreds. In front of his kids, he shed all his tears, had nowhere to store em, no receipt or meds. Before he said a word, I looked in his eyes and I knew… This is what it looks like when the sun is violently torn away from the moon. When echoes are pillaged for their sound, when a DNA strand is unwound and rent in two. He wore his loss like a cloak; his agony like a heavy, second skin. Misery adorned him with her cruel diadem; his head dripped with the stinging mists of hellfire royalty.

And that’s when the veil dissolved into the abyss.

Away for now the form of man.

Behold the true fear where it stands.

… for your light to suddenly burn out, even as I am dancing in the midst of it.

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The Hang Up

This is my least favorite part

My cheek lines narrow, deep, wide, concealing desire, avant garde. Because I’m smiling so hard.

Telling you my ridiculous stories, startled and intrigued that you’re still listening; digging out my pad and pen to prick the tip of bliss and drip inspiration from clouds to lips. 

Gesturing widely with my hands, fingers speaking an unsigned language through a megaphone, hoping these butterfly ripples will reach you on your pillow and that it’ll feel like- I’m laying next to you.

Sharing our day together. Splitting the frustration with our kids. Edging out the sheet wrinkles with the smooth gliding of our hips, and always competing to be the first to suggest ice cream as the sacred remedy. 

I learned a long time ago that sugar can fix anything. So draw your lips to me and I’ll frame it in the space between our heartbeats.

I’ve been cleaning my room a lot lately. I know you’re not the company I’ll soon keep, but it’s a Zeus streak, catching lightning, every blue week, cuz I’m noob training, on the glued dais, monsoon waiting, for food payment, thoroughly unamused at my flowering chartreuse painting, I put so many words together it’s like a puzzle factory sold their pieces for stock in the picture and asked me to teach the curriculum. 

My room is clean. I’m a king preparing for a queen. 

The glow of my laptop is like a saber to the light- it calls to me. Missions left unfinished on my gaming screen. I’ve got a morning routine, several books to read and I try to get them done early because everything comes to a halt when you’re calling me.

I wanna do everything.

And I wanna talk to you.

It’s a strange paradox that lives in my mind- if I got my wish for us to talk all the time, the waves would lose the tide and the ocean would set on fire. Not talking to you is what gives us something to talk about. 

We’ve been talking for hours now. I love it when your voice pliĆ©s and I can hear your smile. Feel your smile. Like warm honey pooling across my chest.

And that is why this is my least favorite part… how can the night be good if it’s just me with my thoughts? This is my least favorite part…

Because it means our time has come and gone.

Away to sleep…

To awake in the morn.

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Clear

The worst part is that there is no obsession. No craving. I am not passionately thinking of you in the sunset’s silky glow, and I, the breathless horizon patiently waiting to be wrapped in the drunken warmth of your prismatic embrace.

There is none of that.

I sit here. Clear headed and winded. When we converse, I walk around and gesticulate, but after the goodnight bid flees our lips I am frozen again. My heart is stop motion cinema and you control the lens. Every click of your affections makes my whole world shudder, and I blink-

And wanna do it all over again.

I am the poet with the pen, but I wanna give you my notebook and a stack of pencils. So that when you leave, I can breathe deep of your eraser shavings and remind myself that love doesn’t have to be perfect to work properly. Sometimes it’s about the fingers writing the letters- canvassing caresses over the curses even if it’s done sloppily. Soft sigh. Slow motion eye flap. Your name is my homily.

I don’t miss you, am not love blinded by you, am weighed down by no obsession… Which is the worst. Because that means you’re not a phantom and whatever we’re developing… is real. When words lapse, I peacefully count the ticks between your breaths. I am in no hurry with you, because I’m not afraid to lose you, which is justified because you’re not mine and I’m not yours too.

… but maybe I wanna be.

In the end though, it’s all just a burnt mission. Feelings betray Jedi, that’s why I fein indifference. Romance is a cameo, brief character sans appearance. 

The only true love stories are fan fiction…

And There Was Her

I don’t know what I want… or fully what I am… But I know what she is. I recognize her like the foggy haze of a dream stolen from the hearts of better men.

She is thunder in the storm, a voice cutting through the chaos giving purpose to the light.

She is my best kept secret, hidden away in chambers of love so deep I’ve yet to discover it for myself.

A deluge of sparkling fireworks, scalding the adoration clean off my tongue, rendering me speechless.

She is the cinnamon scent of well scored holiday cinema…

She is the candle I light when I don’t know what else to do and night won’t let me sleep.

A roaring delight, volcanic passion thinly wrapped.

She is a universe of unspoken divinity and I, a priest desperate for the prayer to charm her…

She is the aspiration of the ocean, the magic patiently sought by stardust.

A flower spinning petals through the bar room air, dashing the drowning depths of escapism with her dazzling photosynthesis.

She is the pause in my cadence, that sacred word just on the tip of my tongue that I can’t ever seem to remember…

She is the solitude of the hero and the flag of the warrior- nobility knows no identity without her.

An unblemished flaw, juxtaposing past and prologue, disturbing the stories swirling all around me with her reckless dedication to being so in the moment that all others fall away…

She is the response to our Lord’s very first command.

Let there be light…

And there was her.

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