This morning I woke up and began composing. Granted, it was because the world's most incredible man composed one of his own for me yesterday [and I'm not confirming anything, but it may or may not have made me tear up].
So I went to bed telling myself that I was going to write something today. And I woke up with lines running around my brain, so I had to scramble quickly to grab my computer and get them down before they ran off. Because, truly, as any poet or writer knows, a good line only floats around your brain long enough to torment you with half-remembered fragments by the time you finally get pen to paper.
And something came out of my fingertips. And it was a joy to examine rhythms again and play with spacing and punctuation, add dashes of humor and have Thesaurus.com and Dictionary.com open in my web browser while writing.
Ah, the joy of writing. As my man likes to say, "Words are fun!"
Yes, they are, my darling. And these happen to be for you:
Pulling your arms even tighter
around me, I wonder—
Can I sink into your skin?
Into that voice that lilts and dances
in an unconscious cadence
of charm and swirls
beautiful and sincere and breathtaking
words around like Monet….
Or is it Manet? Either way—
I love it.
Into that face that radiates
awestruck wonder so clearly
it’s like my mirror and then I wonder
how my chin became so strong
or my eyebrows so long
or how that dusting of freckles
suddenly appeared just under
my sure, brown eyes.
Into [Oh! Van Gogh!] that chest
where under ribs and all the rest
of that precious ligature hangs
a heart—as fixed onto my own
beating organ as it is into the hold and keep
of that chest and which I plan to hold and keep
as long as I can still press my ear
close and listen.