Saturday, October 02, 2004
Standing in the pool of light. Moving in small circles. Smiling. Glancing. Talking in brief phrases, punctuated by laughter. And all the while aware that things had shifted. The planes of our potential, meeting, and pushing, and forming a snowy mountain between us. And each wrapped in skins marching up the face between the tall pines to crest the top and over, if need be. Me, crashing into you and you in to me. In my head the mantra goes on. Verse by verse. Each one with it's own meaning but the words not varying a jot. As easily constant as, "She loves me. She loves me not."
Don't go.
Stay with me.
Don't go.
Stay with me.
Over and over. Hoping that something in the way the light from the stars catching my eye would convey these words to you. That it would stop you from continuing on, into the night, away from me, and gone.
And I am left with coyote to howl at the moon. He and I in harmony, screaming a woeful tune, with words paraphrased from the tongues of Gods. Longing for you to come back soon. And each poem I write for you will be drawn upon. Little margin Picasso's of letters trying desperately to gather into an order that holds some merit or worth. My pen, racing along the line, trying to capture the feel of the goosebumped skin of your thigh. Trying to find a rhythm of rhyme that beats in time to the quickened pace of my heart when you kiss me with an unrelenting force that pushes my bleeding lip against my teeth and settles my mind into a moment of peace but frees my hands to their own devices. The kiss, feeling less like an affection and more like a crisis. And this ink rolls off my pen like saliva off of my tongue as I race along it's even lines in an attempt to scribble down something that will make you understand. I'd sacrifice every even numbered breath for the ghost of Byron to lend me a hand. As his sword/pen slashes through until the only letters that remain, when put together, cascade into a new mantra of:
I love you.
I love you.
I love you.
And once again I stare at you as the earth, the moon, the sun, and the ring around my eye move in perfect circles, and hope that the way the reflection of that look, that breath, that way that you touch me, is caught in my pupil and you see it. And it stops your breath. And then your step. And you understand, somehow, that as desperately as I want to? I, sometimes, don't have the words for you.
¶ 1:10 PM
Don't go.
Stay with me.
Don't go.
Stay with me.
Over and over. Hoping that something in the way the light from the stars catching my eye would convey these words to you. That it would stop you from continuing on, into the night, away from me, and gone.
And I am left with coyote to howl at the moon. He and I in harmony, screaming a woeful tune, with words paraphrased from the tongues of Gods. Longing for you to come back soon. And each poem I write for you will be drawn upon. Little margin Picasso's of letters trying desperately to gather into an order that holds some merit or worth. My pen, racing along the line, trying to capture the feel of the goosebumped skin of your thigh. Trying to find a rhythm of rhyme that beats in time to the quickened pace of my heart when you kiss me with an unrelenting force that pushes my bleeding lip against my teeth and settles my mind into a moment of peace but frees my hands to their own devices. The kiss, feeling less like an affection and more like a crisis. And this ink rolls off my pen like saliva off of my tongue as I race along it's even lines in an attempt to scribble down something that will make you understand. I'd sacrifice every even numbered breath for the ghost of Byron to lend me a hand. As his sword/pen slashes through until the only letters that remain, when put together, cascade into a new mantra of:
I love you.
I love you.
I love you.
And once again I stare at you as the earth, the moon, the sun, and the ring around my eye move in perfect circles, and hope that the way the reflection of that look, that breath, that way that you touch me, is caught in my pupil and you see it. And it stops your breath. And then your step. And you understand, somehow, that as desperately as I want to? I, sometimes, don't have the words for you.
¶ 1:10 PM
