i want to tell you how i long to curl up inside your arms– how i want to write myself upon each line of your body and sign with a flourish (but no i’s dotted with hearts, because even i am not that sentimental).
i want to become absorbed into your story.
i wish you’d turn to me when stress wends its way between the folds of your clothes, a clever pencil, to draw your shoulders into the intricate of knots. take your guitar, your video games, a plastic pipe that blows bubbles if you like, and come rest against me. i promise that my arms are strong enough to hold you up, and there is enough of me to cushion your aches– if you trust me enough to let yourself fall.
behind the crimson shutters of my eyelids sometimes i see you:
your funny-looking face, the bump in your nose which i imagine is like your ancestors’ (and i wonder if there were others as tempted to ski hesitant fingertips over the ridge as i am now);
the honey darkness of your eyes,
and your strange mouth.
i wonder about touching the thickness of your hair, and there are enough videoclip-fantasies of tucking my face into your neck at night to rival any library collection.
i think sometimes that i could be in love with you,
iv: coffee table
but perhaps it is only the sheer sharp ache of relief at finally being able to rest my elbows on something more solid than i am. i am not sure.
v: walls/vi: windows
i am composed of heavy plated armor held together by sarcasm hinges over humor mail, but your bizarre humor and refusal to do battle with my demons is rusting the iron. i am afraid to let you see how close you are to touching vulnerable flesh–
to seeing what lies beneath,
but i am almost ready to let you in.