I live, naked and nervous and curious, at the peak of a waterfall. Though strong are my intentions, I have but to blink to find myself taking the dangerous, ever present hand of gravity and leaping into the rocks beneath me. Delicious is the fall, devastating is the impact. Never, ever, ever will i learn.
All the world is poetry.
I want a home. I want a cozy, constant thing that is mine and that is yours and that is ours. I want a white and grey backdrop for the colors of our happiness, sadness, passion, anger, zest, frustration, intensity, and love. I want a drawer full of the kinds of band-aids that you put on the scraped knees of children versus the kind that people place over the scraped hearts of lovers in hopes that all the pain will just go away. I want a home in which truth and faith abound and life knows no limits.
Words. They live in my nerve endings, as real as pain or pleasure or the in-betweens. Words —- scattered, unintelligible — pushing and pulling like magnets, creating pressures and lapses like so many neuroses infinitely undiagnosed.
I know my love means very little to most people, but it matters to him with a ferocity that surprises me even in the spaces between moments.
I blew you a kiss before heading for the door and you chased me with a shot of whiskey, unsure of whether you were trying to swallow your courage or fuel it. The door wouldn’t budge against your weight, my mind couldn’t make the rest of me move or argue or resist, and all these years later I have yet to walk away.
You pull in in like fingertips after mornings first stretch and drink in my scent like coffee before sunrise. The feel of you is akin to the best pages of the grandest novels, like the words that hint at places in the world and your body of which you had be previously unaware. I tell you how…