Friday, February 11, 2011

Letter.

If you read this letter,
before this summer is almost
over, know that I haven't peered
out and stared at you from
behind old tattered curtains.
In a bout of jealousy.

I have only gazed at you in awe,
at how on such wildnights
that I spend in vapid isolation,
you, dressed in darkblue, are your most eloquent,
your planner full, your spirit everfree. 

If you read this letter
before my love for you
is buried under the rubble
of orotund phrases that don't mean
a thing,
know that six minutes
into Beethoven's seventh symphony
my love for you trebles,
and how soon after in my head,
I am a whore, my eyes
red with anguish, like
an abandoned stormy sky.

Don't remind me of how
I wear my heart on my sleeve, and
of how many times I have
rummaged through memory
to conjure up reminiscences
of your touch against the nape
of my neck.
And how these are only
mnemonics, just easy metaphors
for the queer shape of your nose.

If you read this letter before you
are gone, or I am (whichever is earlier),
know that I don't wait for
toomany words, or songs or sweetnothings.
Know that I love you, already,
like a man I have laughed with
but never smelt or touched,
for you are a man I have made up,
and felt, in my head.

If you read this letter before
this poem ends, know that my soul
is shriveled up already, and my heart, between my legs,
is already weary of working.

5 comments:

  1. Wow, this is absolutely incredible. You should post more of your poetry. Hug to you.

    ReplyDelete
  2. I was expecting to see attribution to Neruda at the end of this post. Imagine my awe when I didn't.

    only
    mnemonics, just easy metaphors
    for the queer shape of your nose.

    - Just wow. And 'trebles' - Heh. In short - ILOVE =)

    ReplyDelete
  3. beautiful :-). Like the new look too!

    ReplyDelete