You’re still like a dream to me,
I can almost touch those phantom edges,
beautiful shapes that have left me longing
on the precipice of what I can’t understand.
And I think I’m almost there again,
before winter when I grew too jealous,
too passive to say what I really meant
the last time my whisper grazed your ear.
Before when I was stilled by the starglow
upon your skin as we made love,
the first time I leaned that passion
is more like an entity than an explosion.
And that was before you knew
that love has to cut me to the bone,
it must come to me in an almost violent surge
that takes root of all that I cannot name.
And maybe that will prove to be
too much for you to hold on to.
Neither of us really knew what
we’d bring out in one another,
sometimes the capacity to create beauty,
vast swathes of it wrapped in endless metaphor,
your ink was able to shape more than mine could,
I was the well that it secretly drew from, though.
And I was privileged to be such a catalyst,
even if it left me as a shadow.
You’re still like a dream to me,
I can almost touch those misty edges
as you feel the shape of my heart in your hands,
the scared halves like shaky monarch butterfly wings.
I just want you to the feel that pulse,
that warm and rushing unstoppable valve
that will always leave me longing,
I don’t care if you fully understand.
And I think I’m almost there again,
before winter when I grew too jealous,
too passive to pull you close enough to me
so you could truly know what beats for you.
Before all I could breathe was dusk on our skin
as we made love drenched in the late summer starglow,
the first time I saw passion ignite
your body in endless animate hues.
And that was when you finally knew
that love has to cut me to the very bone,
it must be an almost violent surge around
the marrow of all that I cannot name.
And maybe such an intensity will
prove to be far too much for you.
Neither of us really knew what
we’d draw out of the other,
sometimes the capacity to render
the most beautiful and articulate stories,
I wanted to leave you haunted with mine.
Your ink shaped more worlds
but mine knew how to touch
those aching phantom edges inside,
it drew from a darker well that lived
on the precipice of what I can’t understand.
And I was privileged to hand that over,
even if it left me as a longing shadow.
