I Fear the Ink’s Immortality

I’m out to dinner
with my father
talking about how I can talk to some guys
and he asks:
“Do you ever talk to them
about your poetry?”
And I shake my head like the answer is obvious,
laugh at the image of them caring before stating:
“Never.”

Because how do you explain
to someone that
when they smile in your direction
Vesuvius is erupting
and you are covered in lava?
That the way they breathe
is a lullaby
and when they pull away
you ache for the gentlest of touches
and though
neither of you are breathing heavy
you kiss their nose,
their forehead,
make sure
their pulse
is not tripping over itself
in order to form
your name in Morse Code beats.

How do you look someone in the eye
and say I hear your footsteps
like rain on a tin roof
and close my eyes;
fall into daydreams
when you come closer,
picture you holding me
tangled up in sheets
with rivers racing down the panes
of our future home?

How do I explain
that my heart
and all the shrapnel embedded in
its four chambers
are lying in wait
in your open palms
and though I never thought you were
one for cannibalism
I’m waiting for you to take a bite
and eat up my love?

How do I look across a table
at brown or blue
eyes and tell them
I’m drowning,
don’t send help,
don’t throw
life preserver
but do dive in?
Join me in this ocean
with my flushed cheeks
and your tide-like pull,
I am sinking
and wanting to spill all over you.

I date boys
who gets degrees in science
or who waste time
in high environments
and consider this
what I deserve.

I fear loving a writer
because who’s to say
I’ll turn against the light
and he won’t write about the curve
of my profile against a candle,
envying the very wax that drips
from the wick.

I wouldn’t know what to do with this.

Let alone how to talk about it.

So I keep my mouth shut,
smile coyly,
snarl sarcastic,
and laugh loudly
to fill the pit
that sits in my stomach
waiting for someone to find
beauty in the letters
that spill of my tongue
rather than the lips
that conceal it.

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