I'm almost wishing I were almost naked,
stripped to the bares of myself with
bones and flesh and soul mixed together,
exposed and reaching toward you;
then maybe you would remember me.
Touch my tears, they're real this time;
I guess I finally learned how to cry.
Pinch the wetness with your fingertips and
try to imagine how I must think I feel.
Run your hands along my body,
lingering where the scars are;
brush your pretty hands at the ugliness
until you realize that you created it,
all of this and who I am.
I remember how I trembled,
your child's hand touching my child's face,
almost kisses that became more than that
as you looked into my eyes that could never,
never in the forevers of life
be as beautifully broken blue as yours;
maybe that was the reason you could never love me.
With my poetry and imaginary things,
refusal of all the realities binding everyone else;
I love to pretend you love pretending,
but perhaps that's the only way we could be.
Am I still a pretty picture of nothing?
My mediocrity is far enough for this to be okay,
good enough for one short moonless night,
but never more than you can touch.
Pluck me a thousand freshly stale words from your
garden of whys and lies and excuses,
every reason why I can't be with you;
give me your verbiage, your beautiful limerick lyrics,
while mine linger behind my lips,
playing with my tongue as I watch your mouth;
love words, hate words, death notes and poetry
stuck between my almost not quite perfect teeth.
Please come see what you've created,
what you took and made unbeautiful,
drained and drank until it was almost less than alive,
reduced to melancholy phrases on its pen,
dying simply because you told it to live.
Do you recognize me now?