June 02, 2010

Somewhere Between the Fog and the Sun

I read these old things, words of my own and well at the thoughtful emissions, well at the thoughtlessness of winding words and roads.
Eyes close, eyes open and there you are and there I am staring back with blown eyes wanting, needing for your touch.
A secret lulls between heavy musical beats and soft bruises until it becomes too much to bear and we find ourselves falling into familiar factions of desperate kisses. Your hands too much while wanton exclamations of love go unnoticed.
Hold me.
Hurt me.
Fall into me the way I find myself falling into you.
Sleep settles the mind for short moments and hours until we wake and try to recount what secrets were exchanged til dawn.
When the night started I stared into the mirror and was answered with a regal smile that knew all too well where the night could lead, back down this path of least resistance, back into this den of inequity.
I can’t keep writing about you and pretending it means nothing. I can’t keep daydreaming about you and pretending it means nothing while my eyes well with salty tears.
But it does mean nothing, it is nothing.
I will continue to silently adore you, except on the nights we let it go too far and my altered mind can find all the right words to lay upon your deaf ears.


Doug said...

That's an invitation a man would be a fool not to take up.

Doug said...

The crunching of your heart is music. (feel free to write.)

Rio said...

the crunching of your knees is not

Doug said...

Nope, not poetry either.