I don’t know why I feel the need to put you into words,
like some sort of compulsion to define you, describe you,
put you in a context I can find familiar.
I write you, I stretch metaphors with your name. They strain.
They remind me of myself in your arms. They beg for punishment
in lust, in desire, in fire. They cry for consumption and release.
Words beg to be quenched, but are left parched and bruised. You
leave me wanting more. Before the sun sets on your name I will
become a beggar, always asking for a cup to be filled, always
living on hope and prayer and the whims of strangers.
Don’t read into the subtext, it does not exist. I will hold up artwork
for you to look at and understand. This is not you. This is not me.
These are words struggling to define a desire that makes aching
mandatory, and lust a paintbrush you are masterful in using.
I am a blank canvas, something still unknown, uncreated, wanting.
Paint me with your off colours. Hang me in a dark hall. Let
the shadows have their way with me.
I will watch you from hidden pages in a book you once forgot,
and leave clues in the subtext. I will be what you desire in moments
of aching and loss; when your mind begs to know your
heart, you will fail to find the words.
I will be the voice you heard in a dream,
something forgotten upon waking.
These words are not ours,
they belong to tales best left to lovers,
and dreamers, and those who believe there are happy endings.
We are not crossed by stars,
only by signs we both forgot how to read.
The tale is told, and it is time
to put words to rest.