I have no words to describe a concrete form of this thing between me and you
Nor any specific political and philosophical ideas to bring to your attention
When we speak of such matters, as we so often do.
You speak the words and write them on crisp white notepads kept by the phone
Sing them in the shower, sign them through the window
Mark up paper napkins and sugar packets
With your reality and how you see the world.
I speak my words through kisses and touches, write them on your body
With swipes of my fingertips, circled dates in the calendar on the wall
The ink stains on my fingers, they do linger on your wrists and cheeks and hips and all.
And though you could be defined in black and white lines,
Breaking and shaking and starting over again,
It is not you in whom the world will place their trust
No, I must be held accountable for holding you in check, taking your words before you carelessly
Throw them to the wind and to undeserving ears.
In sureness, I am not a gentle soul
And nor am I particularly hypocritical
And, at this moment in time, I am awake and alive
Awaiting a word or a touch or a sight to blind and erase all other
Previous visions from my sight.
Here, you say, is your slice of the pie
To do with what you will,
To cherish and hide and keep very very still
To infuse with your humanity
And, because you are human, to bend, crush and break
Between your hands.
You crush my hands in yours so tightly
That I can feel us, bone to bone, skin on skin
And have I spoken of times previously kept silent when I--
I have asked you for advice regarding this unfortunate set of circumstances
We seem to find ourselves entangled in.
This is not a moment in time when love is appropriate
And neither may we speak of great matters with surprisingly tender results
I am not here, pushed up against the cement wall in the snow
To hear you speak of next, where we must go.
Accosting words bring to mind a question I've been meaning to ask.
But I know
You will not answer. The spring flowers breaking through the snow
And you wonder, "where will they go?"
Do you know? Shall I show you?
As the fingers move the pages of an old and brittle book,
Flipping through the leaves like a gentle breeze on a summer's rose petals.
In this, we are not a rose.
We are doors that open and close and
Behind which important men speak of trivial things and smoke expensive cigars.