So I'm going to be violent.
I dip your framework into white paint, and I dangle by your side, my nose almost dipping with you. The walls tremble, and the can of paint sways with my profanities as I stammer to call, "STOP!" You're almost there, because I hear you singing. I stand back and watch you shoot through and spin around, downing all the paint like you said you would, and soon you will be ivory. We are ivory, now. I clamber up the blotches of black, and I actually feel your reaction in me. My pulse tickles my ears, and your eyes trek through mine, and I feel like dynamite, and I feel pretty. Your tongue is a lexicon as you whisper the world to me. You plead me to come to life, and I do — I've wailed through the process, and now you're my bones and my flesh and my blood, zipping and zapping through everything in my system, in my systems. You drive my mitochondria, my cells, you are my neuron, and I bury my words underneath butterfly kisses. I am light and happy, true and quixotic, fond of your science. I trample down the stairs and find my hastily discarded words. I dance myself through and in them. You strip me of them, and I am still whole afterwards.
So here's a short description. Of you. Your eyes are illuminated with warmth, and I can't hear ANYTHING — it must be twelve, where is my clock? You are my alarm. Your lips are rushing with blood and keeping down words, but don't shorten your dictionary! I am in awe of how your lower lip is cherry, and how it can keep all... those... words... Your words are foolish and young, but I am trapped on my own consent. Your palms... your hands are gauche. You know how thin-skinned I am, regardless of what that means to you. Your hands are my phantoms. They ghost over me, and I am almost overpowered by your presence, but your palms are gentle when they land. They land to soothe me, to erase the tears, to accompany my hands which, no, you do not ignore. I like holding hands. I like holding your hands.
No comments:
Post a Comment