I Think I Am Beautiful Sometimes. When The Universe Allows Me To Be.

I think I am beautiful sometimes. When the universe allows me to be.

String Theory

About:

1. If god was meant to love me he would not have given me you. He writes this on your palm when the sky is an ink spill and he cannot read anything in your lips except the overflowing of magnificence that drips down your chin in rivulets of melrose perfume each time he kisses you.

2. Let his wrath come for us if it means I can spend my life coaxing your soul into each breath you take. You are dizzy in this jar of fingertips and closed eyes and skin to teeth to lungs to skin. Oh how you want to be as he is, falcon wings spread and scattering the Appalachian dust, each particle a wish to be carried upon cracked beaks and broken feathers to a deity who blesses the way your very essence trembles when he is near.

3. I think I mean it a little more each time I tell you I love you. Is what you wish to reply. But there are butterfly wings beating within your trachea, threatening to escape from your star-smeared mouth in tender waves of boyhood secrets and petal-filled laughter. And you are anchored to silence by the way his hands shake as he unhooks the saint that always rests upon his collarbone, his fingers brushing the fragile bones at the top of your spine. When he pulls away the saint sits on your neck, proof of his worship of you, even if it is damned.

4. I am merely another sacrifice. You think he whispers, maybe he doesn’t. Maybe it was the cicadas, maybe it was the breeze through the wheat stalks, maybe you are drunk on his gaze and didn’t hear anything at all. 

The idea of you spending the rest of your life with me makes me sick.

Which is to say I do not think it would be fair of me to sentence you to the rest of your time with me. What a shame it would be for your years to be wasted on us .

What a tragedy for your infinite love to be reduced to soft smiles and to drip slowly through cupped palms. Reduced to weathering skin and decomposing dreams.

I do not think I could bare, chaining you to us. When I know there is so much out there calling to be known by you.

What a sin it would be, for your infinity to be stifled by my desire for a fleeting eternity with your unfathomability. Your soul a broken record of lost potential.

I do not think either of us would be happy, for long. The endless loop of what could have been, lulling us to sleep and waking us at dawn. The winding melody threading itself between us as we hold eachother in the dark.

Your unfuillment clouding the windows. My guilt cracking the floorboards. The rements of our love sitting in a shoe box at the top of the closet. A fond memory of our youth that evokes more slammed doors than it should when we dust it off over a glass of Nostalgia. We don't know why it makes us so angry. So sad. To recall that we have become nothing of what we thought we would.

I think fate would forever resent me. For stealing you away from her. Life plotting our drifting slowly. Poking holes in our roof, flooding the kitchen sink, fiddling with the thermostat so its never quite right.

Until we find the silence (a once soft blanket we giggled under in the pillow fort we made in the living room)-- thread bare. Itchy. Fraying. Slowly unraveling. Until we find ourselves sleeping back to back. Holding hands awkwardly for photographs. Not talking until noon after 3 cups of water downed coffee. Dinners eaten at different times and tight lipped smiles with sad sighing eyes as we cross unexpectedly in the one bathroom in our appartement.

All of the kisses I brush across your cheek tasting of apology. Both of us trying to hard to let it be enough. Life, a spited lover picking us apart slowly. It would never forgive me. I would never forgive me.

I do not want that with you. I want forever with you. And I think the only way, for us to have that, is for me to let you go.

But love,

Please

Come back

And visit

I will patiently await your breif moments of return. Savor the sticky honey footprints you trek into the house. Every step dripping in hope. You-- drenched in life.

Wring out your sun soaked skin over the bath tub while you tell me tales of the way the universe has made love to you an infinite number of intricate revaltions.

Your eyes sparkling with a garden of blooming constellations that would have long ago wilted if I asked you to stay. Let the glittering of the stars in your gaze tell me I made the right choice. That it would have been selfish to keep you,  in all your miracle, to myself.

The taming of your galaxy. Until it be consumed by its own blackhole in self preservation. Making itself small enough to plaster itself across my bedroom ceiling. Call it the sacrifices you made for love.

No. I would rather miss you recklessly gentle. My longing tinged with the knowledge that you will return, to assure me that that love I refused to take from you is being spent well. That the time I refused to steal from you is being spent well.

My needing double dipped in the the belief

That

You

Will

Come

Back

To

Me

If only to rest your weary soul, a moment. My little shooting star. My little galaxy. And tell me tales of your travels, without me.

Memories fall from the notebook

I expect them to flutter to the floor

But they tumble from the pages

Leaden with the past

And shatter upon the ground

~and i cut the soles of my feet on the unsaid, leave a trail of bloody footprints behind me that haunt anyone who crosses my path

Achilles didn’t shake the sea floor with his sobs, share a bed with a corpse, and willingly submit himself for death out of grief and rage over Patroclus’s loss just for you bitches to reduce the infamous Rage of Achilles to the Power of Friendship