full of things I already had
and I think she thought not of the contents
and more about the action-
the whole thing felt quite symbolic
because everything that fit into that envelope,
I had already given to myself
and it's always about the way things look to her
and not what lies beneath,
including Me.
She does love her lists and checkmarks
of characteristics-
don't you love the way this seems to the world?
the way it all sighs when we walk by?
our relationship has become that striking girl we've all known
walking poetry-
so intriguing, she must have a story to match it
beneath her wild mane and the hot coals of her gaze,
but there's nothing past it-
so deceptive, so disillusionary
we even fooled ourselves
because we appear so damn lovely,
it seems wrong for it to not be right.
Sometimes I feel like a Van Gogh on a wall
the dark depths of blue and the yellow
handled in hard strokes and delicate lines,
the pointilism of intention, a vision-
I want you to ask me of my colors,
why this swirling night sky?
why these brights lights? why Anything?
but you see a pretty picture
and breaking it down would be paint-by-numbers
and I am a masterpeice:
a great soundtrack in an okay movie.
It's about a call and not a conversation
It's about writing and not the inspiration
It's about a trip and not a journey
It's about a relationship and not love
Because how could you be happy
when I'm not?
I can't define a soul- you know it, or you don't
and if you don't know a full cup or happiness,
how can I explain anything?
these aren't just words lost,
it's a whole ancient language- of romantics
the soulful, the living, the raw
I am a geyser, entrenched, and bursting
reaching higher, higher, flooding this space
and you are a thimble, always filled up
(in a pool of me, my cup runneth empty)
by the littlest thing because of the way things seem
and not the way they are.
This all just breaks me
and I can't decide if it always has-
because none of this is a mystery
you've always thought of love as a choice
and I, as a rare gift
I've always thought of running free
and it hasn't been you, with me
It's always been my guts on the line
and yours in the wreckage, two steps too late
you don't get me,
and you haven't, and I've known that
from the first moment my heart hit the floor
and you moved for the door:
I think I'm scared of losing her
though I've always been lost from her.
Knowing this bears a weight:
storm clouds heavy on my shoulders
rain in my heart-
I'm running with lead sneakers far from this place
where we've freezeframed our hearts
and the pucker of this perfect kiss
because I'm intoxicated by the almosts and ifs of this
though I know my truth
and the panic that jolts my body
in thinking of moving forward this way
I rock here, slightly,
screaming the words of some one else's heart song
feeling me, living between what I want and need.
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