for all i see. microphone lips on daffodils.
a time that came. you know. when the thought of the other set a trill. a beautiful flutter in your heart. you don't know how to explain it. what it is. this attraction. the latent feeling of i want you. but i'm not ready to tell you yet. what if. what if you don't love me back? what if the first time we held hands. grew out of politeness. while you waited under your skin to say. never come back. i don't want you back. what if at the pier by the river. while drinking eight glasses of white wine sangria. you laughed and joked. and looked at me. only to tell yourself. this is not the one. he is not the one. you said. i want to go to the bar. with you. i swallow a gulp. no, i'm not comfortable right now. why not, you ask? i want to touch the moon instead. and what if you decide. this is it. but you cannot tell me anything. cannot tell me to leave, because your politeness. your temporary niceties forbid you from doing so. and then the dagger came with your cold shrewd ignorance. you feigned business. the secondariness of my existence, so obvious in the wake of the day. evenings spent. waiting for a text. a phone call. no response. no reply. that gentleness on your lips. that i touched in the bedroom. says today. dude, i don't have time right now. this makes me gulp a second time. there is this hankering. this lingering from the moment i met you. i told you that evening. i will support your decisions. all, other than the one to smoke weed. and you say. at the avery fisher. you hear xylophone melodies in your blood. a harmony so intense. it makes you cry. like the white water hymnals. it makes you want to spring in the air. and latch on to the treble notes waving to the lilt of crystal chandeliers. and the musicians. you are one.
but you make me cry. you make me stop my life and think about you. this beseeching in a city where sex is free. where amour is a ternary conceptualization. which is not to say that love is lost. not to say that when i held your hand, that lonely evening, i didn't feel anything. this armor around my discreet emotionality has destroyed a dozen souls. i told you that. and you smiled. and shook your head. laughed at the moon. at the fresco of the glimmering night sky. and then you kissed me. rolled over, and kissed me again. and i kissed you back. 1901. the beginning of an odd train of rumbling awfulness. they used to say Madison men don't know how to love. or love too much. tie my knuckles and kiss my lips again. what have you done? this circle of breaks. and bleeding hearts. remember how it felt when one did that to you?
a time that came. you know. when the thought of the other set a trill. a beautiful flutter in your heart. you don't know how to explain it. what it is. this attraction. the latent feeling of i want you. but i'm not ready to tell you yet. what if. what if you don't love me back? what if the first time we held hands. grew out of politeness. while you waited under your skin to say. never come back. i don't want you back. what if at the pier by the river. while drinking eight glasses of white wine sangria. you laughed and joked. and looked at me. only to tell yourself. this is not the one. he is not the one. you said. i want to go to the bar. with you. i swallow a gulp. no, i'm not comfortable right now. why not, you ask? i want to touch the moon instead. and what if you decide. this is it. but you cannot tell me anything. cannot tell me to leave, because your politeness. your temporary niceties forbid you from doing so. and then the dagger came with your cold shrewd ignorance. you feigned business. the secondariness of my existence, so obvious in the wake of the day. evenings spent. waiting for a text. a phone call. no response. no reply. that gentleness on your lips. that i touched in the bedroom. says today. dude, i don't have time right now. this makes me gulp a second time. there is this hankering. this lingering from the moment i met you. i told you that evening. i will support your decisions. all, other than the one to smoke weed. and you say. at the avery fisher. you hear xylophone melodies in your blood. a harmony so intense. it makes you cry. like the white water hymnals. it makes you want to spring in the air. and latch on to the treble notes waving to the lilt of crystal chandeliers. and the musicians. you are one.
but you make me cry. you make me stop my life and think about you. this beseeching in a city where sex is free. where amour is a ternary conceptualization. which is not to say that love is lost. not to say that when i held your hand, that lonely evening, i didn't feel anything. this armor around my discreet emotionality has destroyed a dozen souls. i told you that. and you smiled. and shook your head. laughed at the moon. at the fresco of the glimmering night sky. and then you kissed me. rolled over, and kissed me again. and i kissed you back. 1901. the beginning of an odd train of rumbling awfulness. they used to say Madison men don't know how to love. or love too much. tie my knuckles and kiss my lips again. what have you done? this circle of breaks. and bleeding hearts. remember how it felt when one did that to you?
No comments:
Post a Comment