12-17-2025, 02:26 PM
trying new things, as per usual. let me know if this one does not work (i can't for the life of me tell). poem below...
my aunt writes gorgeous love poetry, and i wish i could do the same so fiercely my skin prickles around
the want. i wish to write you pretty words with such an intensity the thin tendons of my shoulders pluck
themselves at the thought of it. what can i offer you in exchange for this warmth? only a recounting: you
were on me and all in my vision was sunlight. i want to give you beauty; i wish to stamp the fine lines of
some mundane pretty wordshapes into my fingerprints and trace them on the outline of you, there, and
there, and there–
all this to say i do not know how to begin this poem, that i cannot begin until it is upon me, as we
learned on the floor at 4 in the dim cool morning and again at 11 in the first frost and again at 8 pm on a
wednesday like any other wednesday. i am no good at verbalizing, so instead i pause, and you wait
beside me. your patience is astounding, and all i have to give to you, then, is more words (only some of
them pretty). write our names in the same ink, please, boy, or i will spin; i will lose my unseen fieldcurve
and the soft dark iron filaments cooperating into the shape of me will split in all directions. the warmth
is yours, and also it is mine to gift back to you when you will take it, when i have time to give. maybe
there is no exchange more than the back-pass-and-forth of your cold hands on me and likewise, in the
other direction. your words come easy and with thought and i find them mesmerizing. try to breathe,
boy– your time is mine too–
my aunt writes gorgeous love poetry, and i wish i could do the same so fiercely my skin prickles around
the want. i wish to write you pretty words with such an intensity the thin tendons of my shoulders pluck
themselves at the thought of it. what can i offer you in exchange for this warmth? only a recounting: you
were on me and all in my vision was sunlight. i want to give you beauty; i wish to stamp the fine lines of
some mundane pretty wordshapes into my fingerprints and trace them on the outline of you, there, and
there, and there–
all this to say i do not know how to begin this poem, that i cannot begin until it is upon me, as we
learned on the floor at 4 in the dim cool morning and again at 11 in the first frost and again at 8 pm on a
wednesday like any other wednesday. i am no good at verbalizing, so instead i pause, and you wait
beside me. your patience is astounding, and all i have to give to you, then, is more words (only some of
them pretty). write our names in the same ink, please, boy, or i will spin; i will lose my unseen fieldcurve
and the soft dark iron filaments cooperating into the shape of me will split in all directions. the warmth
is yours, and also it is mine to gift back to you when you will take it, when i have time to give. maybe
there is no exchange more than the back-pass-and-forth of your cold hands on me and likewise, in the
other direction. your words come easy and with thought and i find them mesmerizing. try to breathe,
boy– your time is mine too–
