Friday, 15 May 2015

I cannot/can.

"I feel the urge to write poetry about you
      Yet, I cannot and it pierces me.
I cannot because I haven't inhaled your scent yet
     Nor traced your blue veins popping out here and there
Nor have I felt the pores of your skin emit something
     I can't quite recall
I cannot because I haven't seen your 3 am frowns
      nor your laughter as it breaks through my grim mornings
Nor have I listened to your fingers enchant the air
      to make the dust cry in the evening hours
Just before you'd put me to sleep.
Just before you'd put us to sleep.

I feel the urge to write a few lines to you
       Writing. Which I haven't been able to do in a while
The words are fleeting
       Just like you
One moment you're an eternity
       and then again, you're but a wing's flutter
I cannot write because I am wary and weary
       I cannot write unless you write me too.

Fuck poetry.
I feel the urge to hold you at 3 am with your frown and your brokenness
to trace your veins up to your chin and hold it up
because I wouldn't want you to shoegaze
but look at the stars above you, a place where you belong
I want to recognize what your pores emit and know it's more than just coincidence
or destiny or whatever people would call this.
This is not just some word in a dictionary. Or in any book.
We're writing each other on a sheet of crumbled paper. And the ink is not smudgy.
And I am not wordless, I am not weary, I am not wary
But consciously awake
While your ink becomes my blood
While you bleed worlds into me
While you inject yourself
Special K.

I want to inhale your scent and know it's the safest place to be
I'll be your laughter through grim mornings
and the melody that plays along to your tunes
a perfect arrangement of instruments.
I'll be the bass to your guitar
Or vice-versa, whatever we want.
And sometimes I'll sing you lullabies
Just before you put me to sleep.
Just before you put us to sleep.

I feel the urge to write poetry about you
      Suddenly I can and it still pierces me."