poetry

Let Me Write It First on Your Heart. {poetry}

What the mind doesn’t know is that you can fall,

and not even from my eye.

That is what the outline of your body did.

But I knew your door in secret; I carved a way to you.

I could not let your spirit die.

 

All along you had been watching your feet,

But it was the floor you had misunderstood.

What a clever plan darkness had drawn out,

while hiding you in the shadows of its grim hood,

starving you from all that is pure and good.

 

I moved the angle that your head was bowed,

because by my absence you had begun to grow old.

Not by your reflection or height,

but by your hands that held the grave memories that

may alight upon you to unfold.

 

Your strength had been where I live.

You could not see the feathers that clung to you,

that you thought would never stick.

But inside, facing the rusted walls where you breathed from your past,

lifted up a thousand hands,

but from places where only I could pick.

 

After many nights, there came one

when I took my seat upon a rock.

With one stroke of my thumb,

I rubbed sugar onto the surface of your watch.

It was then that I held up my lamp to see it was finally you riding my white horse,

To drink from the river that was now pure from everything that in it you had tossed.

 

I asked you to come closer,

because there was a color to you I could only reveal.

So gracefully were you let down off my horse’s back.

It wasn’t in my scars or in my voice,

But by the blazes in my eyes as you dropped all timidness to engage in that which I have had for you,

by the tipping of my hat.

 

I witness the length of my getting here on time,

but you seem not to worry about the moment placed in the frame.

You had resolved the riddle that maybe my favor was upon you,

And you already had inside you what you kept desiring to gain.

 

You claimed the question so eloquently,

yet wavered with so much rage.

But never once did you unleash it to quench your emotions —

the question of why it would not go away, why it stayed with you in that cage.

 

I can’t say that I haven’t been grieving for you,

because even when a sparrow falls,

I too have tears that seep out,

and your descent was the depth of my comforting calls.

 

Dwell in me, hide in me:

Those are the words that I could whisper in your ear to so solemnly find.

I scattered the dust from around you to tie in my love,

and put your faith on the utmost rewind.

 

Your eyes had been frozen in the cold,

modeling a dull fixed stare.

but my beckoning disarmed any future place

that would ever let you fall again

onto any altar of an unforgiving taste.

 

I’ve closed the book about the unconscious world you had been a slave to.

The one with pages of tales,

of all the spaces that still lurk in between.

But they no longer live,

they no longer can hurt you,

after all the loosed ink from your healing they have seen.

 

It was never to be published,

what you had thought to be an embroidered conclusion,

that had nothing to do with your bended knee.

You see, the story of your soul has already existed in my palms,

But you have to let me write it first on your heart,

So that one day you can then read it back to me.

***

MichelleSanbornMichelle Sanborn is a devoted self-nurturer. After several years of doing just the opposite, she now enjoys life splendidly and unbroken. She currently lives in the moment, spends as much time as she can being barefoot, and enjoys the cooky behavior of Siamese cats. She has a love for raw honesty, has found that the places of our past are never really lost when they have full nostalgic value, and she dreams of someday having a hot air balloon ride over a very green country. Her recipe for nourishing her introverted ways consists of one-on-one stimulating conversation, a date with her kitchen baking sweet treats on a gloomy day, and with her headphones and beach chair as her only guests, she drinks up solitude at the beach from nine to five. She does not believe in luck, but instead believes in being blessed. Writing is not her occupation, nor does she string the chords of an imaginary instrument to make it be so. The true faculty of her writing would only take the form of absolute serendipity, and that is just what makes her feel alive.

***

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