Is it wrong that I still long to belong?
To share every care and touch your hair?
To pillow fight, fly a kite, hold me tight,
whisper secrets in the dark, swing in the park?
His lips were made of paper,
Unkissable and cold,
But his hands were a sonnet
So beautifully told.
I stare at the noise, drawn to the void,
Conversations that I’ll craftily avoid;
I’ll walk off the earth, dying since my birth,
Keep running till my bones hit the dirt.
Under the shower, let the hotness devour,
And the water sink into my eyes like a rotten flower;
I’ve got the deadest face, I’m just a waste of space,
I’ll let my heart run free as my soul loses grace.
My own ears whisper truth
But my eyes deceive me
To watch you
Plucking the chord
For it to belong
Longing quantified and articulated
yours is the touch
that lights the forever fires
seethes the trembling earth,
I am a mime.
Burning fingers pressed
against frozen air.
Fingerprints engraved on the whirl
of wind that guards your heart,
hides your heart,
traps your heart in the eye
of the storm. Snatches
wisps of meaning
with intrusive fingers.
Promises bits of something better…
I draw closer.
Laughing, taunting, stealing
the breath from my lungs.
searching for air,
gasping for words,
for some part of myself
to launch into the wind
as if it could reach you.