Couldn't I Be?

 

I’m not one to mince words. Ever. Superfluity
                                             sort of my thing.
                                                           My mouth
                                                            moving,
fingers frantic
                                                            to write
and write and write. To reveal what’s real.
Fill the silence, all blank pages. If I was mute
  I’d communicate by blinking. For what?
  It’s the hole inside, I suppose. That hollow
                 longing

You see circles;
        spiraling where I see a straight stroll
        winding and I wander off
but always return, find my way home
   to the waiting words,
   to family.
              It’s gravity;
why bother fighting?

Remember you chose this.
Was it worth it?

I wouldn’t
want to
help this. Anyway, I’ve attempted
to no avail, even the shortest span
too long.

Derive what you will; just pretend,
                 at least,
                            to listen. Feign
                           that I don’t drive
you crazy.
Couldn’t I be soothing
                   even at
                   a fever-pitch, somehow,
just because you love me? Remind me
that I’m not expendable,
that you’ll never throw me overboard.
                    Even when I am.

                                        I have no choice.

                                        If you fear my song,
tie not yourself but me, steady to the mast.
I’ll sing from there and you’ll be safe
and you can take me on your travels.
If I’m forced to walk the plank
       my voice will drown
and, too, you might be lonely.
       Maybe, I can navigate.

                    If you must,
just kiss my lips to shut me up.
My tongue can rove around more
than talk. Around your tongue, it can ramble,
spiral, drift and roam. And more.
Passion does not require language.

And if you whispered lavender and tender
while I sleep to
                     take your turn,
my teeth might stop their grinding.
                    If under covers I clench your hand
                   and not my jaw.
I’ll hear your sweet, true
fondness. Your breath, my heart.
Won't I? Don’t endure me.
                        Endear yourself to me as I to you
because I almost, now, fully trust you.
                        You’ve been dependable through and through.

It’s only when I think too much, I’m at a loss
    so I keep saying and saying and saying anyway
which is not how they say to do it.
But having said
   and having writ, still, I’m still in body—
                I’m not going anywhere.
                All it is
                      is muscle memory
                     on a simple cellular level.

And, so, to declare that what’s been marked
                      cannot be canceled by, even, tears
just proves that poetry’s like numbers.
                        It all makes sense, I swear.

I’ll give it to you,
though, that I know you can read my restraint however
rare and still, even then I think I sigh.
                I can’t say I’m sure that’s fair
but I am impressed.

Would you be surprised to know I hear your melody
when I’m alone?
It’s brilliant and it’s thrilling. Tantalizing,
even. When I’m full, so
                                    overflowing frill
do you find the same?
                     There’s something
just knowing that it’s free. Dressed up, dressed down,
                        it’s all for you. All
praise and gratitude.
Even every thought. 

I only haunt you to draw you near. These stories, morsels,
                                                                                moments
are our life, silver now but still verbose.

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