It literally pains my chest to love you.
I can feel my heart hurt at the sound of your voice,
The tilt of your head as I ask a question,
As I smirk at your eyes.
Trying to make sense of the mess.
The shared mess.
I pick up my things, about to wash,
I wish you’d come with me.
A shared mess.
I wish you’d sit on the toilet,
Brushing your teeth,
Gnawing at the newspaper print,
As I round my torso with soap.
I’d get out, and you’d be there.
A blob of paste sticking out of your mouth---
---I’m tempted to walk over and kiss it off.
We make our way past the ancient foes,
The other couples,
And the children lacking adults,
And find a little tree where we can lay.
A mess of cotton and torn tapestry,
Covering the lower,
My lower and your upper---
---I sneeze at the fall air
---I feel the burn in my chest as I take a drag.
We swear we quit, but who’s keeping track.
There isn’t a soul in the park
---besides our souls.
All others are fools and peasants to our kingdom.
The branches scratch my back, so I nuzzle close to you.
I’m gripped by the goose bumps that run counter to my arms,
We hinge ourselves in a lock and key,
Held by a single kiss.
I can hear your pulse,
I pretend that I’m conducting your heart,
---a musical symphony of brass talent.
You throw away the sheet music,
For who is to control the power of love?
You sound mightier then before,
My head bounces as you exhale,
taking another drag before bringing your song to a close.
Your pulse is the only instrument I wish I could play.
It’s the only instrument I wish I had learned.
It hurts me to hear your voice.
My heart can’t hold onto the hopes,
Fantasies of us.
So we’ll sit here in the park,
A restful place for us to hold hands,
Just in heartbeats.
Created: Nov 04, 2011Document Media