You wanted me to straddle.
A limb in each corner.
One burning with the uninhibited heat
The other, pale in life’s banal never-ending joke.
You enjoyed the tearing, the pulling apart
Not of my body.
Ah but of my dreams.
Do you know what torn hopes look like ?
They are jagged. Shorn. Shook from their mother’s milken tit.
Left to mew in the icy shadow of your shrug.
But I am made of moss and I flourish where roses die.
I don’t cry.
Not for you, you wicked thing.
Made worse by no awareness of your hacking.
A shears sheds no tears when flowers fall.
But I am no flower.
I am the tower.
So shears to you my dear.
Make sure you look me in the eye.
No not down there. Up. Up in the sky.
I found perturbed slumber in between the craggy folds of an old blanket
Nestled into a dark room wishing it were smaller.
Only a cocoon would do the trick ,
Tighten around me and let me rest while I grew and changed.
Instead I settle for fitful sleep
Where all the lies you ever told
Make me see there was no baseline with you.
“Hello”, could mean anything.
The intent of your very smile
Will keep me wondering.
But only for a while.
I squandered my dreams on you already
And it’s giving me no good answer, no peace.
So I make my own.
No need for you to explain.
I understand more than you think
And I think more than you can ever understand.
I know what you are. Not of my earth or air.
I would dissect you further but I really don’t care.
I will always suffer this sight
That lends itself across time and space
I see fathoms and fault lines
Swirling moonrock in a universe far from ours
I don’t think in minutes. Hours. Centuries.
They mean nothing to me.
I see circles and curls
Whisps of words spoken light years ago
The first laugh into the sky.
The first tear that set the earth alight.
So if I don’t see you tomorrow
Or the next
Don’t look for me with eyes. Don’t search to touch with your fingertips
To kiss me with your lips.
I am something you cannot lose or find
Flowing through you and past you and back again.
Love is not a word that I just uttered.
It is my print on the matrix that binds us .
I do not fall.
I hold it all.
I have boundaries made of muslin cloth
Thin, flimsy only useful for wiping drool
I let everyone in and under.
Not so much a boundary as a blanket
All are welcome.
The good, the bad the meaner the better
I’ll keep you warm… ish.
And you’ll lie … with me then to me.
But as the frost sets in you will look for warmer cloth
Blankets made of stronger stuff
One that says enough is enough.
Mine stretches until it snaps.
There is a crack that knows, no repair.
The final blow before you split.
The one that determines whether you can ever look at each other the same way again
How deep is the ridge left in you?
How fractured is your spirit ?
How can you be the same when altered to your foundations?
Careful my dear.
Your silence is hammer
And it wears me down to nothingness.
When did I stop filling blank walls?
I used to stick up postcards to clutter up the gaps.
From magazines and places I longed to go.
Make the place interesting. Make me interesting.
Blue tack clinging to the backs of pretty flowers, mounds of spices
Trying so hard to hold it together
Color the beige out.
When did I stop liking Klimpt posters ?
” So studenty” that’s what I say now.
There was a time when that kiss was everything I wanted to be.
When Dali’s long legged creatures and melting clocks made me feel something more than a clean wall ever could.
A time when incense welcomed you at my door and we ate on the floor.
Now it’s clean lines and neat coffee tables.
Cream leather couches and women who click when they walk.
I used to go barefoot.
Drink wine while I cooked. Fall asleep on the sofa.
Clean lines. No clutter. I should feel free.
But beige just isn’t me.
Your glycerin love washes over me
I’m in a lather
A right palava
Soaked to the bone with your sudsy desire
Wet but no fire.
I’m bubbling at the skin
Living in soapy sin.
You slip and slide
Giving me hope
Soap on a rope
But with every rub and scrub
Every wallow and soak