woodandhoney

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

Tagged: poem