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I
first, there was your walk,
i, being an observer of the simplest of beauty,
then your eyes, sunlight reflects from the gloss of
full pupils, i am taken to the warm places in my heart
and first impressions linger in your shadow,
dancing across the threshold of empty doors
into the fullness of admiration,
honestly, i dig your smile
II
i waited for the stillness of thought
to act on the words that were there
to be given to you, and time did not hold my hand,
or move you closer to me
my tongue was as indecisive as my feet,
and time did not wane, it fed my indecision
even when it was not hungry,
and when hunger was not enough—
i turned away from you in shame,
you, all the while unaware that
in your presence, spring came earlier than most years,
at least for me—
a hair strand falls from behind your ear,
kisses your cheek, and i think,
“silent admiration is an insult to its existence”,
but still, the time was never right, to let you know…
III
class was not the same, without you there—
the machismo of a semi-circle of males
softened by the entrance of meliha,
your name easy to remember, sounds
almost as a term of endearment, that lovers may share…
what does it mean?
for my forwardness to be so passé
well, this is the easiest way for me to be heard,
in full, without pause, or the noise
of early afternoon corridors, or pre-engagements
ruining the importance in what i should have said,
the first time i had the chance
IV
to drown the possibility of anything
by not acting at all is what i do best.
hopeless romanticism,
selfish idealism, complex self-deprecation,
sickening analysis
of my heart,
brings me to the same conclusion
over and over again—but i digress
V
this is a poem of confession as much as it is
one of distant admiration
because you don’t know me this may seem
out of nowhere or in excess mayhap
but i want you to know
that these words are as genuine as the breaths
i take while writing them—
you are beautiful, and, this is just my way
of acknowledging that fact.
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"(i do not know what it is about you that closes
and opens; only something in me understands
the voice of your eyes is deeper than all roses)
nobody, not even the rain, has such small hands" -e.e.cummings
"If you pluck out the heart
To find what makes it move,
You'll halt the clock
That syncopates our love." -Sylvia Plath
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myself is sculptor of
your body’s idiom:
the musician of your wrists;
the poet who is afraid
only to mistranslate
a rhythm in your hair...
-E.E. Cummings
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aight, here's the reason, u real with yours, i am once i bring my guard down, we both stupid as hell, we both got our talents, want a lot of the same things, like a lot of the same things, we both
They're my favorite...
