Rose, Prose, Poetry

The Clutter

I see you and I start thinking of you,

And that is my first mistake.

Affection bubbles up in my chest,

And the twine I wrapped around my heart strains,

As I struggle to hide the words that overflow,

Frantically pasting duct tape over leaking cracks,

Trying to push it back once more.

I imagine speaking to you in prose,

Poetry flowing from my lips,

As I describe your beauty and divinity and grace,

And everything else that rests within you.

The vision threatens to blind me,

Like the tears that smear the nearby window,

And I force myself to erase it line for line,

Scrubbing out your visage from my mind's eye.

Syllables, words, sentences, praises.

They all pile up in the apartments of my lungs,

Tumbling out of closets and cabinets,

And piling up in heaps on the floor.

It's an endless clutter that presses against my ribs,

Barely contained as it sends aches through my limbs.

I try to ignore it all,

Let it collect dust and cobwebs,

But I keep shuffling through it,

Wondering if I gave you some of it,

A pair of shoes you've wanted since July,

A necklace that reminded you of an inside joke,

A headband of glimmering gold and silver,

If you might accept it for once,

And the clutter might clear from my heart and mind.

But I don't want to risk it,

For I would hate to overwhelm you,

So I swallow another poem until it clatters in my cabinet,

And let the achiness engulf me once more.