"It's strange that words are so inadequate. Yet, like the lover struggling for breath, so the lover must struggle for words."
-T.S.Eliot
We are petals of flesh
and grains of time that pass fluidly over
words and wine.
Nobody else stands in this room,
only blueprints, they are too perfect to be real.
Your Imperfection is beauty;
your flaws are more graceful than a nest
of smooth eggs, chrome feathers,
or the rolling eye of a timeless clock.
I brush your silky brow
and the question, the frown that surfaces,
it is real; you are by no means divine.
Your halo is steel and the paint is flaking,
you swing it in slow loops round your head
and laugh like the breeze when an orchard falls down.
These are nothing like the movements of angels.
These quiet hands pillowed on my cheek,
the conversations that burble like infants,
these are not the words of saints.
This hurt, this ecstasy, is human.
I etch a note in my pillowcase,
your name and mine
and a cloud bloated with sun.
How all lovers can taste it,
how a smile can erase it.
How our love suffocates on the tongue.
Ilove you!
Ilove you!
