Saturday, May 18, 2013

He who doesnt

Don’t you know me

I am the sound
that small fleeting sound
that echo’s in your ear
as you stretch out
in the morning,
in the moment between dreams
the one you live
and the one you sleep

I am the hands
that flutter through air
like feathers
like a hacksaw cutting through metal
call me tornado

I can not decide what I am
beautiful or horrible
but always trying
to be known, to be understood

I would rather be the breath
that passes from your lips
into another’s
giving life to love
or something like it

who am I to judge

I imagine myself
as the sound that echoes in your ear
in the instance of creation
that joy filled prideful noise
that begins as nothing,
requires you to hone it down

If I were that happy noise
I would be so pleased to belong to you
I would wrap myself first
around your arms
so that you could not forget to play me
eyelids closed and feeling all the lashes
the fine bones that surround them
cheeks and jawline
I would sweep down the curve
of your clavicle
paying careful attention
to the column of your neck
and I would rest in the hollow
above your heart

Keep me there
like a locket

and when you need to remember
that you are loved
open me up

You know me
I am the sound
of palms finding, of fingertips
and forearms, pale as a swans long neck
of bones moving under the skin
of sweat that turns to sugar on the tongue
and callouses, most beautiful accoutrement

it was you who taught me
to imagine the lives between the layers
memories, of all the strings touched
or caressed or pulled and plucked
into new life

if you’re quiet you can hear me

I am a whisper of skin
a song sung between bodies
I am a beat
bombom bombom
I am the blood
and the bone and the flesh
of something certain

You will never hear me
from someone else.

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