you wrote,
and i laughed
tears onto hands that
had never learned
to cup heartache
properly.
gifts there are which
free you;
but yes, there is
a giving that
enslaves.
i fear i cannot tell
you
the truth
of my ignorance.
i have lived
too much
to call myself wise;
learned
too little to trust
myself in your presence
so
to tell you truly that
my warmth means
your safety.
the last pillow-fight
i joined willingly
was a carnal disaster
of premature proportions –
the silence lusted after
articulation
until there was no more
time,
and then drenched
limbs had to leave
even that little epiphany
behind.
i have always
caressed skin better
with whispers breathed
a centimeter away,
or so i would always
tell anybody who cared
to listen.
but my soul, oh my
hungry soul, is as
masochist as the next one,
and i have known
pain
to last until i learned
to define it
no more.
you wrote, and i
laughed tears, because
there is nothing of real
peace in me; not
while my soul lusts, not
while my body longs.
not until my hands can
cup the very tears you
let fall on these
words, so to bring
back to your very lips
the essence of my own
loneliness.
This was SO mellow..I loved it. I know exactly what was spoken without and within these words.