Mar 31

To You, My Poetry

To you, my poetry seems to be
all butterfly kisses and "I miss you"s.
Preforming the plays we acted in as children on
the dusty stage of my old, skipping record heart.
Pulling together the strings of memory to make a web in
which to catch the great flies of long nights spent together.
I'm afraid of spiders, the ones who spin
our fate on the loom of simple uncertainty.

To you, my poetry is weaving the
circumference around our hearts.
Electricity is what our bodies shoot at each other.
Atoms are what make up our love.
Gravity is what keeps the sky drawn down to his earth.

To you, my poetry caresses
wounds inflicted by sour time.
Babysitting siblings along with our impulsiveness.
Time is sour because no one calls her sweet.

To you, my poetry is a mouthful of
skyscraper rain spatters and forest breathers.
Dirt road with a tint of city cement,
black birch with flavors of sidewalk chalk.
Sweet and sour are different kingdoms in
the nation of my tongue but you are
all sweetness when you visit my lands.
The geography between us,
your patches of soil, waiting to be filled with flowers,
my mountains, ready to erupt under your touch.

To you, my poetry is "I love you"s and blood drawls.
Because who doesn't sketch the blood out,
like my inky notebooks filled with your heartaches,
when painkiller doesn't cut it and the sorrows
in your chest sever all circulation?
why have blood when it doesn't carry
the sense to your head like its supposed to?

To you, my poetry maybe all that you need.
To you... my poetry.