You're rambling, but instead of listening to your words I'm willing myself to hear the brush of your lips against each other. Perhaps it's because I'm scared to hear your words and like them because already the rumble of your chest, movement of your adam's apple, and raspy tone has me contemplating what I thought the nature of people to be.
I don't think it's fair for me to give you that power, but the way you conduct yourself in the simplest of matters makes me believe you've hung the stars in the sky.
The longer you speak, the deeper the furrow in your eyebrows becomes and the more crinkles indent the area around your squinting eyes.
The sky is moonless, but the superfluous amount of stars counteract the moon's absence.
My thoughts drift to how the sun lights the moon every night and where the sun is if the moon is missing?
I determine that they're together by the time your voice tapers off and the thought spreads warmth through me.
Your eyes meet mine with question in them, like I am the solution to the uncertainty that creates furrowed eyebrows, and crinkled eyes and eyes brimming with moisture.
And maybe, just maybe I am (at least for you) because I lean forward and our lips meet and the worry in your eyes has disappated by the time we pull apart.
It leaves you studying me with a fascination, much like the one the moon has for the sun that keeps it following the same orbit, in order to remain near it.
YOU ARE READING
Pondering
PoetryI write because emotion spills out of me. This is a collection of my poems and other writing. "My words are tiny pieces of me, each one specially woven just for you. And I will give, and give, and give, and give, until I am nothing and I become your...
