There is a clock on the back of his hand.
As time is known to do.
The seconds clicking over his skin.
Leaving cuts that will never heal.
Permanent reminders of every misstep.
Minutes slowly dragging, edging deeper.
Slicing over scabs and dried blood.
Deep thunderous knocking that rattles knuckles.
The gears twisting skin.
Forming wrinkles on fingers.
Joints rotating in painful ways.
Tarnished brass that no longer has a reflection.
Unable to see himself.
Time has not be kind,
To the man that has not been kind.
In a misguided attempt to fly without wings he fell to his doom.
Living his life based on the opinion of his peers. He made no room for himself inside his soul. Shoving and constricting. Twisting and bending to fit into the iron box that was constructed by people who didn’t even know his last name. In the day time he played video games and read research about evolution while listening to Herbie Hancock.
At night he roamed the streets while kicking over trashcans filled with his parent’s expectations. Wondering in his mind if they too, were misguided. Howling at the moon like a crazed wolf. Waking up in places unfamiliar. Next to warm bodies that held onto him like he was the last breath that they would ever need. Holding him down like vines over abandoned concrete. His soul waiting on the street sweeper to cleanse the debris.
He laid there; In a catatonic state, wondering.
“Why doesn’t anyone rescue me?”
He is use to being the one that people retreat to.
When the front line is being bombarded by arrows. When the spears strike from a distance that doesn’t allow retaliation.
He stands with his arms extended toward the chaos-
not expecting for anyone to save him.
She worries about her smile,
All the while it reminds me of starlight in the moonlight.
Just as works of art take time to develop
like photographs in a dark room.
She was beautiful before the cocoon,
And she will be after.
Her interest in her inadequacies,
And the probability of her not being enough is a miscalculation,
Of what she can bring to the relation.
And to that I say;
She is the reason my cup runeth over.
I don’t mind being sober while we sit by the fire that grows between us.
Small goodbyes and indulgent hellos,
Becoming entangled as we run our fingers through each others fros.
She is the monarch butterfly who’s design can’t be replicated.
Intricate by design with eyes that leave me sedated.
With banter that is witty and insightful,
The time I spend with her is always delightful.
Organic conversation that is pure,
For the loneliness that I feel-
She is the cure.
There are stars unseen and planets unclaimed.
Yet it is still your heart that I desire most.
Your body began where my thoughts ended.
A macrocosm that manifested itself from the warmth of your ocean that called to me through seashells that hung from your locs like a chandelier.
My heart resting there on the mantlepiece above the fireplace next to your law degree and a box full of fortune cookie quotes.
I want to make love to a good cup of coffee
While you tell me what it is that moves you.
Your aura causing the black matter to push me in directions that benefit me.
Your glow layering the solar system in chocolate & honey with every breath you take.
I suckle at the vanilla that are your words as they leave your lips for nutrients.
Never needing to come up for air as all faith that I had given up was placed in you once I saw your thoughts next to candlelight.
Admiring the way your skin reflects light as if your own purity outmatches that of the sun.
You are a catalog of beauty and a paragon of what it means to be a woman who is unmoved by opinion, observation, and those that would mold you into what they think you should be.
How amazing it was, to meet someone such as you.