I’m the only one who knows what his sleepy yawn at four a.m. sounds like
when he wakes up and wants to make love, or how he always greets me
with a bear hug as soon as he sees me. You can’t have the way
the skin of his elbows smells like peaches, or the way my palms
fit so perfectly inside his armpits, like tiny ovens, when my hands are cold;
I remember the first day I caught a glimpse of the back
of his neck, pale and milk-white, just a sliver of it beneath the black
t-shirt, and my heart immediately caught in my throat-
I would staple this love to the clouds if it meant seeing it hang
over me every day-not a storm cloud, those goddamn beautiful
shimmery ones that come right after lightning.
And every time he calls my name in bed, the thunder
crashes so loud even the sound of tsunami waves rolling
against the shore can’t drown it out.
I’ve seen the way you look at him, like a bloodhound thirsting
for its next kill, but let me tell you something:
I have sewn his name, over and over again, into my pockets;
and this thread is stronger than any blood.
You’d have to rip apart heaven and earth just to get
through to that kind of love.
And even jumping off the tallest building in the world
wouldn’t compare to how it felt to fall in love with him-
I don’t have nine lives, like a cat, and I can’t survive
that kind of fall without a parachute or an emergency landing
waiting for me below. You’ll never get those late-night texts
when he’s gone on a business trip and I’m stuck at home
eating ramen noodles out of a carton, the ones that contain
lines sweeter than an entire volume of Pablo Neruda’s love poems.
And you can have these glimpses of him, but not the man himself.
He’s mine, and taking him away from me
would be like pulling the sun away from the earth.
“This photograph is my proof. There was that afternoon, when things were still good between us, and she embraced me, and we were so happy. It did happen. She did love me. Look for yourself.”
This is my proof, Duane Michals, 1974
Brian Eno (via jessiethatcher)
I could reblog/post this every day as a constant reminder.
And I’m sticking it up here for people who define the “good” in Make good art in ways that I definitely didn’t intend…