foudroyant

She certainly merits metaphors;

Beautiful words;

Analogies…

Poetry better than

Anything I’m going to write.

 

still,

it’s much simpler than all that.

 

there are a thousand ways I can

describe her smile

and what it does  to me;

the intoxicating smoke in her

voice that

lulls me into being some

blubbering idiot who,

high on the stardust she left in his eyes,

tries to sound remotely coherent

in spite of himself;

but in actuality

none of that would begin to

to approach the heart of the matter;

it overcomplicates the situation:

 

all I really want is to know

what her hair looks like

when she wakes up in the morning;

to know

the weight of her sadness

and fear;

to know

the urgency in picking up the pieces

that scatter when she’s broken;

to know,

whether her head

or her heart-

just to know

what it feels like

to be moving inside her.