Your Way
Sliding into silence, you approach my open door with roses
rough against your palms and no voice in your bitten mouth. I am starting to scale
my piano, and you listen behind the staircase. I pause, I stand,
I see you. You are so beautiful when you are nervous.
My hands search your face for familiar softness, and my eyes
close as your mouth nears. I am not a woman of action, but you know
I will say something later. My roses, they are dense darkness,
some splatters of ink and some slippery slumber. You see though in that
somewhat sleep some dream that lures you to bed. My bed. My limbs are slim
and my hair long, but you say my arms are strong enough to hold you and nothing of me could
get in the way. I worry though that my arms will not be able to hold your child and my hair
will hide my face. To be lost having been found is terrifying, and though I have friends, I
cannot consider life without you. My hands had never been
held until your hands held them. My lungs had never kept in the air. You, though, you
saved me. You told me I was your wonder, and you made a dictionary of me and bound it
and everybody said you were mine. You waited for me to stop
running from you and the possibility of possession. My having a purpose, I could accept that,
but having you was not in my plans. You settled for spare nights, leftover
pizza, and no mornings after. You came on planes for those, and I could only
curl my body around you and call you my darling. Always I had poems for you, though,
and I think those kept you with me. You said I was certain, I was stirring, I was
special. I thought if anyone was my one, you were. I met some other people,
hoped some other hopes, but guilt gouged me as you loved me, and my love never
went anywhere but back to you. You love me for my roses, aye, but I know
you love me because of something more. My soul is
your soul. My heart has always been beating your way.