#septameter

You make those words I never liked much well up on my tongue, a language of devotion, though we've only just begun. And I mean every syllable, and I'm a little scared, since what I want to promise you can hardly be prepared, can hardly be controlled or chosen, hardly be arranged-- is not a guarantee, cannot be promised not to change-- but still you mean the world to me, and still I'm nearly sick with love, and if I cannot swear, at least can I predict?

A memory, a memory that beats against my chest, half ecstasy, half agony, half faded, half repressed.

You mouth the words like clockwork. Yeah, your lips are so in sync the lyrics and your heartbeat might as well be the same thing. They resonate inside your heart as clearly as your ears, because they name your darkest parts: your feelings and your fears.

He’s the one I’m hungry for, but she’s the one I miss– the one who shows up suddenly in memories of lips. I taste her, vivid on my tongue as if she were around, as if she hadn’t left, as if I hadn’t let her down. I see her smile, so soft and sad, just like it always was. She’s not the one I want, but she’s the one I’m thinking of.

I miss being yours. What a dangerous thing, and completely against my beliefs... You had me tied up with the marvelous string of the lies that you told through your teeth. I wish it weren't stupid to trust like I did, wish you loved me in ways that you won't. I wish it could work, I wish we hadn't said-- said, "I'm yours if you want me." "I don't."

Send me reeling, send me running; something new and dear-- I can feel it--spring is coming; spring is nearly here. Send me laughing, puddle-dancing, gazing at the sky; there's a joy in time advancing; soon I will be dry. No more slush or dirty snow that freezes to my feet; no more wishing for the glow of fire and feeling sleet; There'll be warmth and light, and I will stop and breathe it in-- rain will wash and sun will dry, and I'll be new again.

I am my own religion, shining symphonies of light, a powerhouse in velvet, a cacophony at night. My body is an altar, my indulgences a rite, in temple, tempest--temporary, deified delight.

A letter to myself tonight: Do not neglect yourself. Don't get caught up or swept away in loving someone else. There's no one who can love you back as perfectly as you, for, sweetheart, you are what you love, not when you love, or who.