woodandhoney

Lately I pretend we each live in light houses by the sea

We can only talk with cans attached by our worn string of affection

This must be why so many of our words get lost on the way from my lungs to your heart,

from your lips to my ribs

But think,

-when a little and gentle message makes it across,

think of how brave our small mouse of a message must be to travel such a journey,

The weather it bore, the storms it endured on a tight rope over waves

-But don’t feel too sad! Don’t forget how happily it skipped on the rope,

surely and deftly dancing on the days with sun above and the cool salty breeze on its fur

Think of it, when you finally have this warm and tired message in your hands, when you feel its small but strong rapid heart beat

Such a long journey to whisper my soft question to you

Tonight I don’t want to write

Tonight I don’t want songs

Not even Rummi or Cummings can save me from tonight

I want to lie perfectly still

(like a moth, like a comma, be only the soft craving of a body)

and wait for you to arrive and tend to this mess

I know I told you to keep your songs, your melodies, your arrangements of words that feel like oil paint on my fingertips

But we both know I was wrong

Perhaps I deserve this fever,

this rapid tumble nausea and cold burn across my shoulders

But how can you punish me for being scared of that feeling?

that feeling, that warm, candle light-moonlight-fire place-Christmas light-glowing feeling

that rushes into me when I hear you sing, when your arms hold safe across my ribcage,

when my body is underneath your body in the space of closeness, in that moment of lights

that feeling that fills everything

that feeling that says in the surest of whispers that this, is truth