It's a strange sensation to love you
because when we come close,
it's all fists and confusion and lines and colors
and "Oh my god, you have to see this."
because you're an artist, and I'm not
How can I tell you that you make me feel alive
when that's wrong because
I'm not sure how you'd take that,
and if I'm even allowed to say that
within my confines of right and
wrong,
and what is love and what is not
this is love, I am sure,
but what's wrong with the way I love you?
You're a collection of stars and bones and muscle,
blood and supernovas.
You are my best friend,
the rock under my feet,
or rather,
you are the sand under my toes
that swells up with the tide
and the waves to meet me.
I cannot live without you,
you have burst into my veins,
inviting yourself in,
connecting yourself to my lifeline.
You are the small words that
twist through my mind
when I miss you terribly.
And how can I tell you that you make me feel alive
when I rest my hand just below the soft curve of my stomach
and pray for pain
because I can't be tied to you this way
How can I tell you that you make me feel alive
when I'm praying that there is no life inside me?
How can I tell you that you make me feel alive
When I can't even find my pulse anymore
because I fear it's been rerouted
to something much more important
I wish that you would look at me,
and smile,
and touch my face,
and think of me as art
Because you are an artist, and I am not.