He looks at me like there is poetry lining my lips. Does not hesitate to excavate every curve and dip Of each crack that lines my porcelain skin. This is what it must be like, not having to squint, Trusting the freefall into that unwavering abyss That up until May, I was not sure existed.
These weary eyes have searched for warning signs, To which they have been helpless, Because with you, there is only poetry and storytelling, Wandering hands, eager lips. Some amount of fear will always stay, I'm afraid. No amount of rewiring could undo the short circuits in my brain, But you never thought that I needed fixing, anyways.
There is something similar in the way that we dream, In the way that we breathe. I am a painter, and you are a writer— Someone to make me feel less crazy.
Your love inspires me in the same way that it did in my head. A figment of my imagination, A messy hotel bed. These days, I am still unsure that you are real, Like you are something that should be out of reach, Something I should not have the privilege to feel.
But there you are, Always at the foot of the bed, Writing, smoking, And beside me when I rest my head. Those moments are when there is no uncertainty, No second-guessing, And no need to squint my eyes.
With you, when I am falling, Or ascending too high, You are there, and you never go, And I can love you with my eyes closed.
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