There is a cobblestone path in the forests behind,
winding its way through the trees the same way you twist cherry stems between your fingers in the summertime,
and the walls are brick since you refused to live in anything more feeble than our own hearts and I smiled when you said it because I knew in fact that even brick could not compare to the strength in your chest,
and there is art on every wall and we keep saying we need to stop but we let our eyes wander through galleries and like children in need of candy we cannot bear to come home empty handed,
and we can be found on the couch in the living room, legs intertwined like the vines in our garden, our skin bathed in shades of gold from the sunshine, laughter ringing out through every room and corridor and I,
I do not know if we end up here but god I hope we do.
I tiptoe the line between insanity and reality while
my hands shake with the earthquakes you have
I cannot feel but I can feel the way my
body is shivering from the cold your words inject
into my bloodstream.
It feels as if there is so much pain held in
the underwires of my skin and I am rushing
home, trying to reach the door before it begins to
spill from the openings of my eyes, before
You ask me to write about you.
To write about you, not write you the way you throw wishes I would paint you back and forth between your lips.
I tell you I do not know to write about because one can only paint not paint about and writing is just painting pictures with words anyhow.
You don’t see the difference but to me it is huge, filling up the space between us in its enormity and I tell you to give me a moment.
I tell you to let me write you like sunshine, cascading light, tender hands that teach the world to bloom.
Let me write you like a magic act, predictable in your constancy, always drawing out awe from an audience that is as dark inside as the night.
I plead you to let me write you the way you hold me, soft marmalade skin, your heart whispering love songs to the rhythm of the morning.
It is late now and I weave my fingers between yours like patchwork, promise that to write about you would make no sense at all.
The snow settled onto the chocolate brown of her hair, making her semblance even more magical than I had grown accustomed to. She tucked a strand delicately behind her ear and turned to face me.
“They will wave their hands in the air proudly and shout that the world was made for people like them and not for people like us, ” she began.
She paused slightly then and, despite the nature of the conversation, a soft smile appeared on her cherry lips.
“But, ” she added,
“what they won’t tell you is that the world was made by people like us, and not by people like them.”
We continued walking, our footsteps fading away quickly behind us. It occurred to me at that moment that I would likely never learn the art of understanding her.