susurrus

she is beautiful

and it is the least

interesting thing about her.

 

I could write for hours

about her soft, fiery hair

or personify her skin

into something even more

radiant than it is

maybe liken her eyes to

gemstones-

sapphires-

or pools of radiance;

I could talk for days about the way

her smile explodes

when she catches me staring

at her…

instead, perhaps,

I should conjugate verbs

to try and express exactly

what happens inside me

when she brushes my arm

with those fingertips.

 

We are missing the point.

that she is gorgeous, a vision-

captivating-

is the least interesting thing

about her.

 

I should craft a dissertation on

the way she grasps conversation

and can mold it into

whatever she wants it to be

or how I lose myself in said

conversations,

and find, again,

that I have been hanging on every syllable

as if life itself

is borne in them.

I could paint

in consonants and vowels

images of what she creates

by simply waking in the morning

(she gives the sun its light, naturally)

maybe somehow

some way

I could weave the tale,

spin it with proper allure

illustrate vividly how

she makes math sound sexy

or science a turn on

or

fill-in-the-blank-with-any-drab-and-dreary-notion

and suddenly I am lost in its eroticism:

but that’s just her way.

That she is frightened to feel

all of the things she feels for me

this…

this isn’t even the

most interesting thing about her.

 

that she calls me friend,

confides in this fool,

reaches for me to have and hold

when I least expect it,

that she sleeps in silence next to me-

ME-

her body full of oxygen and

blood pumping through her

extremities

heart racing

living

breathing

next.to.me…

 

none of this…

not one iota…

is the thing.

 

She doesn’t know it.

or believe it.

It’s lost on her…she,

broken,

tossed aside amidst

all her glory

(the nape of her neck, the small of her back)

given up for

not even 30 pieces of silver

and left alone to start over

with only my words as solace

in the dark of her storm…

there are no words to sell her

back to herself.

She is written so profoundly

so sagely

so prolifically

none of it left to chance

so that in blindness,

in darkness

in deafness

locked in a bubble and left to my own devices

just knowing she exists

knowing who she is

saves me even as she might be lost.

There are no words

nothing in my lexicon

zilch in the vernacular

to even touch upon

all she sets unbridled

in my soul.

and She doesn’t even have a clue.

That I find her to be

tied to me

tethered

enmeshed to my soul

unsuspecting,

unwilling

unleavable…

and it’s nothing to do with that hair, those eyes

lips

nape

back

skin

toes

fingertips

and everything to do with all of it.

the most interesting thing about her

is somewhere deep inside of me

and I’m not giving that back

not now.

not ever.