i wrote you a poem (i’m manic)

i wish you could brush my hair
for the rest of your life

i could play led zeppelin on
the tips of your fingers
with my mouth

we’re a billion miles apart
further from each other 
than if we were 
in death

in death
you summon from memories
days on end until you join them
alive still
your soul dormant 
the fabric of existence marred
maimed by longing
and missing
and more

you could play led zeppelin with
the tips of your fingers
inside my soul

the wasteland is alive today
with the sound of wailing 
for an empty tomorrow
i’m left shaking and wishing for the void
with its silence 
and quiet

i exhale and hold the voice as it 
rocks back and forth
echoes of its sorrow 
cloaking us from the cold

i am daydreaming about the breeze 
on my naked back
next to your lips 
the sun catching in the sparkle of your eye
in the attic of my home
in the attic on my mind 
the smell of summer heat
heavy and hesitant and wandering
actually a mood
slowly swaying to the swing of the wind

mrs alliteration, i’m married to semantics
and vocab and syntax
if you fire the sorcerer behind the script 
of your life
can i write it instead with the inks of
my heart 
flowing faster when you kiss me
and i’m more alive 
time almost slows down and i exist
only in your arms
like a thought 
let me type the rest of our lives
right before the sun sets 
when it breaks behind low clouds 
and evening is upon us 
slow and lazy and quiet
like the rest of our future 
i’m comfortable 
and content

i hope they analyse my poems
the curtains are both blue and any other colour
i hope they write essays about our love
i hope after us 
they’ll believe in
star-crossed lovers 
in soulmates

i’ve skinned myself and here it is
a breathing rug for your sleepless nights

i’m putting on a show
our audience is unaware but i can hear 
the thoughts in your chest 
you get to share 
and you get to keep

i want to kiss the peak of your cheekbone
the shallow of your temple
the edge of your hair 
the brightness underneath
i want to kiss the corner of your mouth

i want the binding and the roaming the
settlement of heart 
and the exciting lines jutting past the 
constricting horizon of the margin
these drawings were not ready
neither were we

i think i only wrote you prose so far
i’m sorry


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