plotting where we intersected.
With searing heat I burned my name beneath your skin,
and watched the embers glow.
Recede.
Ran hands along your kissing scars,
found solace amongst the imperfections.
A hall of records left behind by fellow promise-makers.
Filed myself somewhere in-between the I would nevers,
and the I will always.
***
we don't even know what we are,
fumbling around in the dark to grab onto something,
I'd hoped it would be you that fell within my reach.
you,
just like all dreams,
dissipate when we're close enough to touch
my fists clench, frustrated with attempts to grasp a vapor
an incorrectly shaped container to hold the formless
if i could only breathe you in,
stand close, close my eyes
and inhale
till you'd fill my lungs to capacity
i'd happily be drowned in you,
satisfied
to never exhale
again.
***
we
blindly laid bald-faced promises on the table.
grinned falsely through perfect white teeth.
breathed in the ignorance,
deeply,
passionately, in our smoke-filled room.
blacken our lungs.
construct thirteen stories atop a set of burning matchsticks.
and cry in amazement when it all comes
down.
***
The wings of an apology are no good for time travel.
Breathless symbolism can't resuscitate you,
These intangible platitudes don't float,
and are therefore
useless.
***
The Music Man don't want much, a nod, a smile. He'll never ask for a buck, but if you've got one, only if it's no big deal. And he'll give thanks profusely, that you cared to reach in-pocket and say something. George, wrinkles on his face, cries for the Music Man. George cries to be among friends; Abe hasn't seen Alex, and you'd be lucky to find Andrew. A small gathering of presidents, dances for the Music Man.
He plays until pores drip, spilling every bit of love, fear, passion, and remorse he can muster. Nimble fingers along the stretch of a guitar's neck to keep the power on at home. His tireless voice, the same to worriedly greet his children over distant phone lines, croons a believable I love you. A tapping-foot-metronome, soles worn through to socks, reassures the tempo to keep you comfortable. He works hard to see you exert as little effort as possible to enter his world.
His life belongs to you for three minutes, and he'll never ask for anything.
He plays until pores drip, spilling every bit of love, fear, passion, and remorse he can muster. Nimble fingers along the stretch of a guitar's neck to keep the power on at home. His tireless voice, the same to worriedly greet his children over distant phone lines, croons a believable I love you. A tapping-foot-metronome, soles worn through to socks, reassures the tempo to keep you comfortable. He works hard to see you exert as little effort as possible to enter his world.
His life belongs to you for three minutes, and he'll never ask for anything.
Was the poem yours?
ReplyDeleteyesh, it's all mine.
ReplyDeleteYou write very well. I'm so impressed. I love the lines "i'd happily be drowned in you, satisfied
ReplyDeleteto never exhale again".