Amorphous

[I've been writing a lot of poetry lately. Little snippets mostly. Bits waiting to be grown into something bigger. But they are less fun locked away and unshared. And no thought is really ever finished. So, here they are, still growing...]

Our hands were clasped to hold the liner notes of sad songs we sang together.
I’m a sucker for a soft, sad song, don’t get me wrong. But, no matter how soft
or how thick, a blanket of sadness just doesn’t keep me warm at night.
In the end, all we really had is a handful of wishes and far far too much sadness.
So you can call this whatever you want but I’m throwing your toothbrush away.
and I’m building the rest of my life on blocks of happiness.

We live in a world hell bent on improving the things we love.
Fat free cheese, sugar free soda, caffeine free coffee.
But there is nothing as sweet as your smile.
There is no excitement like that brought by your half closed eyes
looking down upon me under the canopy of your hair.
There is no way to lighten a kiss taken from your lips.
So fill me up, babe.

I don’t know how to write the word “perfect” without it looking insincere,
but I meant it.

I can’t play you enough songs to help you understand,
so you’ll never know exactly how I feel. But I’m still going to try.

I can’t even give a list of reasons why without sounding like
one part gushing journal of a twelve year old girl
and one part grandfather whose only passion is in strict perfection.
But there is something about that combination that feels just right–
Mixing learned responsibility with the passion of middle school love.

Too many dreams went unlived
because I couldn’t convince myself that I needed them.
Too many moments went uncherished
because I should have been spending my time more wisely.
Well I don’t need you but I’m holding on tight.
And I don’t have time for this
but I intend to waste every second on it.

We letter this poem on our bare shoulders.
Each letter sticks, but only for an instant
rubbing off with the next drawn shape–
changing as we do, from soft fingered letters
on smooth, subtle surfaces
to deep, blocky letters pushed into the
salt of sweat and tears by whatever crude tool is closest.
But…
If you look close enough. If you stare right there.
If you don’t blink. For just the hint of moment you’ll see
that the poem is writing itself.