The shades between reality and dreaming are very clear to me. The dim and dull variations of paper work and rejection, and the harrowing, vibrant, extraordinary sparks of love. I was never clear on my own perceptions of love. Until I found that in my spare time of living I often wished I was dreaming. The hands that feed me give off a healthy intention. A love so delicate as baby’s breath in spring and baby’s first Christmas in content.
The hands that hold me are a glass home. So beautiful and tender. Sharp to cut me if I hiss my tongue too quickly or squeeze too firm. They are working hands. Constantly moving although keeping at a steady pace. Thus the hands of time count the dismemberment; The disengagement; The skin to skin divorce between mine and it.
Inside of my glass house are veins. Wires if you will. That pull and tug the ways of the heart. Often times I feel as though we share an artery. For whenever sadness arises we both wilt in heartbreak. Nevertheless; A glass house has a glass heart. And though I hold it dearly to me it is never truly mine to keep for without it. You cannot live to tell the story of past safe keepings. You cannot move on.
I accept my plunder into this field of broken glass. Because holding a heart so magnificent as time works it’s way around means the world to me. My little glass house has become a temporary home. A home with hollow eyes, a real heartbeat, and a green flicker of envy for the one who figures out how to make a glass house into brick.
Until the hands of time become withered. I will stay. Letting the feeling of lipstick stained lips decay. Through my skin it will go and only I will know. That you were. Are. And always will be. Mine
I lay in purgatory not because of death
as my eyelids
I crave for
yet so accustomed
of Her skin
Her inner self
one of many
than to be
my undying love
with Her in
no real suffering
than the simplicity
for the one
love the most
I will wrap my heart in a ribbon so pretty it shall be. Tied in a little bow and sealed with uncertainty. What used to be a color of a set of rosy cheeks has been exposed to me and there is where I leak. Blotched with blood stains the bow remains the same. Yearning with an eager voice for you to take the blame. I cried and weeped for more than a few weeks. Telling myself that I should take the heat, but really if we’re being true and gosh I hope we are. You are the one who made this open scar
My hair tied up in ribbon so long and so fine. Thick and brown and full of life. Like the color in your eyes. You lift your hands and with a simple tug locks of lust come crashing down. They surround me in a strangling cloud of past hurt and what’s now. I see your face and in your smile there’s a lace of concern. I turn my head and look to the ground my rosy cheeks now burn
I could walk through the door in a statement of despair but the smile could be so broad you’d never know
This is how it goes
I don’t tell you how I truly feel for I get afraid that the foundation will peel, and not the foundation upon my cheeks for which I spent weeks trying to perfect but the foundation of your skin from within holds your heart of gold, but I am getting old and I’m told that I should be a treated with respect but what am I to expect when you never ask how I am so do you really give a damn? I sit and wait for the grand slam the day when I can finally cry
I’ll drain my eye sockets like the bathtub water like my soul like my head like my heart
The time I can wrap my arms around you and not be questioned with your thoughts of my doubt but instead a new saying will be brought about and it will combust bringing me to a pile to stardust
I love you.
Holding my hair your voice whispering “there there” but I wouldn’t dare tell you this today
Because these are just the things I wish you would say, sitting here day by day
Wondering if you’ll ever come around to pick me up when I have fallen down