Sunday, April 10, 2011

NaPo 9 - Silence

Agh. I'm a poem behind. I'll fix that eventually. For now, here's this.


The minute hand should take some time,
slow down, hold
the hour hand, gentle, and
still. I don’t think it understands
just how slow it can go - like now,
in your arms, where the edge of your
shoulder is a horizon dawn
breaks upon, and I want to take the time
to savor the moment, read
the secrets spelled out in
vertebrae, trace the hours
contoured in muscle -

time sleeps here, gets lost
in itself, even though I want to
take every 60 seconds, in every
60 minutes, just to try and trace
a new word for love in your skin,
a new touch that says what I
can never say, leave it
tingling there so it can’t be
forgotten, so it can whisper
in the quietest of hours -

the solemn times when the
minute hand is just running
laps too quickly to hear the

music I want to play on your
piano rib-cage, play upon the
alignments running along your
tendons, allow the sound to
echo from so deep beneath your
lips -

it feels like music here, the acoustics
in my hazy head can ring for ages, it’s
so open, yet the only air I have
comes from your body, and I feel as though
it’s the only thing I can breathe here, I need
that rhythm,
that beat I can transcend to,
and time won’t exist there, just
collective streams of sensation
running for the ocean, tides
of beauty crashing over,

there’s so much music
in every moment,

and I want to take the time
to hear it, to sound it out
from my pounding chest
until the hand of my inner clock
realizes it just needs to

close my eyes,

and listen.

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