Posts Tagged ‘longing’

I’m not sure if I’m isolating myself

in my shut mouth, my closed door,

by the groups I hang out with,

in my flannel shirts, in rehearsals.

I keep thinking how nice it would be

for two arms to wrap around my waist,

pull me close to a warm chest,

a beating heart.

If I open my door,

there’s no guarantee I’ll open my mouth.

I have longed for a kind word,

or a touch. I have

begged for this much.

And while I’m trapped

between four walls, it seems,

everyone else is

falling in love,

or finding happiness-

while I’m- just-

stuck.

O stuck Heart of mine,

you pine for the past-

can you not let go

of what was not meant to last?

 

There is no excuse, now,

not to pump Red to my cheeks-

I have grown cold, with you

behaving thus for weeks.

The Space between us

is more than Silence-

more than Longing, still-

I had lowered my Defense

 

perhaps a bit too soon,

and struck too many times,

or perhaps we missed

Opportunity to reason- you and I-

I do not think of you at break of day,

the sunrise in its vivid orange holds

me so. I meet blazing sky with squinting gaze.

With passage of day I focus not on sun’s golds,

but on your hair: reminiscent of clay and bronze.

Your skin has been kissed by the zealous sun,

I envy it. Your eyes carry one hundred tons

of precious jewels, they glitter so. What’s to be done

when the sun’s passage turns my thoughts to you?

Am I to let this burning love fester?

Or should I loose the words, and then, know not what to do?

Sun, swallow me and let these thoughts pester

me no more! I would rather perish in flames

than go mad due to these wicked mind games.

A tune reels in my head.

It is so familiar yet so unmatched,

I yearn for it

as every man and woman yearns for water.

I believe you are that tune.

Intruding upon everyday

steps on cement and blue carpet,

upon breaths made without thought,

upon blood drumming in ears- war drum

keeping balance between heart and head,

upon nights, moonlight deflected by drapes,

but fantasies not deflected

nor tune obscured

by darkness of room

or warmth of bed.

My regular blood flow is interrupted,

the drumbeat changed, when I see you.

No longer does my pulse stream

at a constant rate, unnoticeable,

it quickens to a locomotive pace.

My heart and guts quiver,

something in me swells, engorges

and pushes away feelings of sadness

as simply as a tear is stroked away

by the steady finger of a lover.

Is it your flushed face,

your small and kind eyes-

their blue warmth like a stove-fire,

which tug my gaze to be held there,

like the compliant needle of a compass?

You, the center,

are far from me,

buried in long conversations

with people I do not know-

one man with dark hair, one man in flannel.

Do you even know my name?

My heart observes:

learning every detail of your face and the way you walk,

listening to the sound of your voice,

fluttering like a doe’s eye from the subtlety of your laugh.

This moment is conceivably permanent;

I smile at your back, my heart pulsating

at a frantic-rabbit pace,

and you staring forward,

head tilted at an angle which I can admire.

My thoughts jumping with happy possibilities

and the sad realization that they will never be.

Unless,

you turn and smile at me.

I sense there is something you could tell me,

but won’t, seeing as we are far apart.

I rest on the twilight edge of this city,

You rest on the other side. I hear your heart

echoing across the distance between us,

the expanse filled with amber and neon.

The beat stumbles toward me, shreds the hush.

I close my eyes and listen to it– wan

as an ill baby, but a comfort, a song

that reaches me and pries nightmares from my mind.

I sit staring out the window, and ask how long

until I see you again? The wind

offers no reply. Only blatant noise.

Though muffled, your heartbeat still pierces this void.

I wish you knew me.

Many a day I have longed

for simply the comfort of your smile,

and the tenderness of your laugh-

brighter than any day in July,

and more musical and inviting than a grand orchestra.

 

But you do not know me.

I am as unreal to you

as the palette of dawn,

intangible and many times

invisible, because you keep your face to the ground,

because you dare not to dream

of soaring the way I dream of you.

So,

this is what it’s like

to be incomplete.

I sit in a corner,

wedged between bricks.

I revel in nostalgic moments

of applause, lights,

all for reading words written by somebody else.

The words I wrote

struck people silent–

I was preaching to a room of statues.

Back then my legs were trembling

from anxiety.

At least then

I was feeling something.

Now

I am a garden slug,

tired of the luxury

of remaining hidden

between two slabs of stone.

Is it my silence which has trapped me

in this objective state?

If I were brilliant,

would things be different?

If I were to stand and talk

would there be listeners? or

would I be rejected

for saying too much.

Then, would the corner

(that vampiric cavern)

be a comfort

to patch the hole

reopened in me?