Writing Poesy

I was writing poetry, and you were writing poetry.

It moved on your fingers and my thoughts fell in the space between us.

I couldn’t say these things that held like anchors to the fathoms in my brain.

I mixed too much metaphor, and choked on the figures.

Your fingers continued to make music. Music that was your poetry.

It was my heartbreak, and heart stopping and beating for further strangeness.

I couldn’t decide your love.

I couldn’t decide your reality

I wouldn’t decide your love

In truth, I'd always had to choose.

But in choice, I wouldn’t take a side

And float with my thoughts in the space between us.

I was writing a song, and you were writing a song

Songs of ourselves, and all we knew

Our temptations danced as from other bodies. Ourselves floated beyond that physical space and smiled from the ceiling.

The song held breaths around our heads, and we waited for our respective solos.

I couldn’t touch your heat, you burned so strongly.

I felt that you were the first person I had ever met.

I still feel you are the only person I’ve ever met.

I’d mapped out our route from town twice, and in the country, at the fork, we’d always get lost.

Sense of direction skewed, we rolled the windows down and just let our floating hands guide our way.

We made it to the world, again and again and again.

We made it, and the world scarred us, so we took more than our share.

At least I did.

You always deserved more than I.

I was writing a story and You were writing your story

Mine lost its ending to the snow.

I couldn’t dig it out from under the coffee stains.

You only drank tea, and your story brought home bread-

I sulked in my lazy bed.

On the third trip out to the country we found the way past the turn all right.

Unfortunately the car flipped; your foot always too hard on the pedals.

Too heavy on my chest.

Bloody but excited we followed our broken limbs down to the valley below.

This time the world escaped us, and the track so meticulously planned, like a grocery list, had rearranged itself in patterns too subtle for our perception.

Dismayed, tired we returned to the City, where lights never left us in the dark.