i mean it's not even your body.
oh no don't get me wrong, please
loveliest of the lovelies..
your clavicle and almond eyes,
the bones in your neck, your
neck,
your thighs,
they kill me.
but i mean..
it's not even your body.
i mean it's not even the little gifts.
my love, and though
how i love them, you know,
the lilac sprigs and warm pancakes,
the messages you leave
for me,
it makes
me smile, see.
but quite truly,
it's not the little gifts.
i mean it's not even your touch at all.
god, i'd surely go mad without it.
odd
as it must surely sound..
it's the way you walk the earth like you cannot feel the ground.
it's how your clothes hang on you.
the layers in your preacher-voice.
the way your fingers curl when your hands are at your sides,
not by instinct or by choice,
not the warm tone of your skin or the structure of your bones,
but the force that lives within
them.
involuntary, prone
to making wrinkles in your nose whenever you laugh hard.
i'd hear you in most any room.
it carries your laugh far.
how you love me, yes, all that-
your kisses, how they burned
all my resolve that first damn night,
you love me beautifully and right,
but even if my love for you was in no way returned..
it'd be the way you button up your coats
so very high.
your frown, and sigh.
and your old hopes
for nothing but some solidarity (and nowadays for me)
how you look from faraway,
the range of your emotion, and
its sheer brutality
(brutal in capacity)..
before you ever even belonged to anybody,
that'd keep me so
so hopelessly
so damn in love
with you.
not your body
not your gifts
and not your touch (your hands, palms, lips)
not something
that i can even begin to list.
in essence it's my heaven
and it lives through all you do.
