I have not been
totally honest with you.
I have held my hands
to prevent my words
from crashing into you.
You are lovely as you are,
a confession wouldn’t make
you any more or less so.
The moon is so low
I have only to reach out
and I could take her
into my trembling arms.
When I dance with her
I think of all the ways
we could fall together.
My heart turns cartwheels.
I find ways to occupy my hands,
my time, my fragile, augean ego
just to keep my emotions
from my spilling over.
My sleeves are stained.
My sleeves are red and torn.
I pull the covers over my head.
The stars are so close
I can smell the smoke
rising from their golden skin.
Each breath is a prayer.
I count them under my breath.
I count them until
the numbers cease to make sense.
I spend my days
breaking myself down
with my fingertips
and a conjured image
of your gorgeous smile.
I would burn to cinders
if ever I found myself
underneath your body.
I am pretty only
when I am alive.
I have not been
totally honest with you.
My hands shake
even though they don’t speak
as my heart wills them to.
What is a goddess
if not a woman
overflowing with love?
I will keep my poems to myself.
I will wait until our destinies collide.
mindlovemisery 