I quiver.
Parts of me juddered to a halt.
And almost immediately, I resent the insinuation.
In your lambency, I coerce my eyes to drown themselves
In the tempests of people
Far from your eyes,
Which I will not see for a few moments from now.
I filthily institutionalize my love,
That namelessly arose nascent
And slid secretly into a void in me.
It is as if
I am growing a plant of love on you.
You would take care of it, yourself;
The blood, bones and light, you’d give these all.
And yet, I believe,
As if my entirety was growing on you,
I tend it in ways that I believe will help it grow.
And when people come by,
I drape it with an opaque cloth.
I’d be scared;
What will they make of the light?
When you and I can love without a care,
I will even marry you.
I will smother your hair with love.
Afternoons and evenings will never malinger.
There will be things to do.
I will never need to lie.
You’d never need to pucker your face.
I will even kiss you,
Even think of making love to you.
And on the trail of fluid fast,
In an iridescent, unbearably light tear,
We will paint auroras and cycloramas,
And daub our paper hearts with flimsy crayons.
Let’s go there, you and I…
