Crumpled Veins

Our confessions will be a
forecast, not of ink nor
glossed affections,
but of translations trying
to be attained.

For nobody can write you down.
I've tried, but each time I smooth
this paper out with warm breath,
I fall a step behind

and I see blood like white pages
crawl over me.

I am unable to give answers when I
don't even realize how plots are made
and how you will cross
unto soul, and this wholeness of
heart will be procured.

For now, you remain between
metric and my hands that are
observatories to skin,
wrinkling yet set in time.

Your avenues will lead me
to someday find words lit by
fireplaces instead of
tobacco and blank parchment
I doze off next to.

Arms- trellises- it's all the same,
isn't it? For it is only I who can
touch the white burns papyrus
releases.

So much swells within in me,
I feel, I age, I parachute
as paper must commit before
diving and bending love.

Lead me, before words become
warbled and my skin crinkles
in the sun-

and disintegrates...

*Written October 19, 2012 at 10:49 pm.