I want to write you endless poems about kissing, dancing, spinning minds and whirlwinds of your fluttering skirts that tease and taunt and catch my eyes. I want to write to impress you, or divest you of your second skin, that I can spread my fingers from your painted toes to your silken tresses, memorizing all the way. Mesmerizing all the way.
I want you to adore me, to restore me to my former glory. Give me starry eyes and I will shower you with light. I want a smile and a fleeting glance, a catch of eyes as if by chance, where I can capture your attention, undivided, for a sliver of a second before I lose you in the crowd. I want to wade through the sea of man until you're in my arms again and laugh until we're drowning in the din.
I want to woo you with a silver tongue that tangles, knots and swells with blood, the moment that your fingers twine with mine. I want to feel a fool and see amusement turn the corners of your mouth up. To catch the glint of innocent laughter in your eyes.
I want to feel you breathe beside me, arms wrapped around my chest, and watch the light of the television dance across your shadowed face. I want your lips to find their way to throat, to jaw, to meet their match and spring their trap. An offer I would never dare refuse. I want your eyes to catch me, like prey trapped in a web, then bare your claws and fangs and have your feast.
I want to rise in threat to overtake your shores and pull you out to sea, then smash your tiny vessel with the gale of my desire. I want to spatter old clichés and turns of phrase until I've made all the blank pages in the world a canvas for you. I want to draw you in and drown you with me, surely I am drowning in this, and the endless ocean's embrace will give you life.
You've caught me at a loss for words, for once, and I am not ashamed.
If I've deranged, or ranged beyond the need for stage and page then I am sincere in the telling, if not always quite compelling. I will sing for you, if you will dance, and if you won't I'll write, perchance, to Chance or fancy.
I've burned in effigy, ephemeral incandescence bursting, evanescent, all my untapped power spent and poured like honey tears. Your eyes are brilliant stars. And such clichés are both a nightmare and a dream. At the risk of sounding silly, I would compile them in compendium and scatter the pages to the wind. Dust, like the ashes of my fathers.
I will glorify you, if nonsensically.
Ebulliently Yours,
-S.R.
