Sinking In

I haven't written here in quite awhile. And it's been even longer since I wrote poetry of my own. I used to be so prolific, but the things in my head got too hard to translate to paper the longer that I let them stay out of a pen.

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.