squint at the sun

He doesn’t write poems but you hope he loves you like one. You hope he sees you like a symphony, like a sculpture, like paint, like clay, like something he can get on his hands. You hope he’s painting you in colors that don’t even exist just so he can go looking for the names of them. You hope he sees you like you are every sunset he missed when he wasn’t looking. You don’t understand the way he thinks, but you hope he thinks of you often.

Human beings are funny. They long to be with the person they love but refuse to admit openly. Some are afraid to show even the slightest sign of affection because of fear. Fear that their feelings may not be recognized, or even worst, returned. But one thing about human beings that puzzles me the most is their conscious effort to be connected with the object of their affection even if it kills them slowly within.

Bighorn Ram (Endangered Species), 1983