I want to be the sound, that sound I am sure every person on every planet makes but no one will ever make quite like you, when you stretch your body as far as it will stretch in the morning. That soft mix of moan and squeal as you bend the sleep from your weary bones and remind them that they were built for being vertical no matter how much they love the feeling of lying down. I wonder how it’d feel to be your favorite song? The one that makes you stand to look for the hand that can only land on the small of your back and spin you in slow circles to the words you know by heart. I want to be known by heart like all the songs that act as soundtrack to all the memories of all the things you’ve ever done. I want to be your first day of school when you were just a child, the backpack that was bigger than you were and the school supplies you shopped for weeks in advance after checking the list and checking it again that was taped with too little scotch tape on too big a window outside the hauntingly empty parking lot that is a school in summer. I want to be your dreams, be they nighttime dreams that take you to places that you have never been or put air between your feet and the earth that you’re locked to or just simply let you sit around a table that you and I built out of old wood we found on slow walks through rainy fields. I want to be the steam that rises from two cups of tea while we sit at that table and the way the light seems to play in it when it’s filtered through the dirty windows still moist with the morning. Or your day dreams, for they are dreams too even though they always get passed over for the silly fact that they lack the qualifier of sleep to fuel them. The daydreams where you stop, mid-bite or mid-sentence or mid-morning and just stare into nothing to fill it with so much something else. I want to be that something else and the way your pupils dialate when you start leaving this place to spend a breath there. Maybe I could be piano keys so your fingertips could dance across me and no matter how out of tune I found myself, you could still find a way to make music. I want to be a short winter filled with long snows and a long spring filled with longer thunderstorms and I want to be the goosebumps that crawl up the back of your spine at the first bolt of lightning, the first crawling boom of thunder and the way your eyes raise up big and bright in tandem with a giant inhale when you hear it. I want to be a handwritten letter that you wrote to me, and I want to be the letters that you carefully chose to put next to the other letters and the way you worked hard to make the sentences dance together. I want to be your handwriting scrawled across the pages and the bravery of choosing ink and not lead so mistakes stayed mistakes and could not hide from my reading eyes. I want to be the word and more than the word the promise of ‘Yours’, before you sign your name. I want to be that flourish of that pen and the way it connected to your skin and that skin covered your blood that carried all the words from your heart to your finger tips through that pen that your fingers held too tightly and pressed too firmly into the paper it wrote upon. I want to be the pages under those pages that still carry the indention of your thought process and I want to be the part of the envelope you lick to seal up tight all the things you could never say to me.
Posted on: Mon, 12 Aug 2013 23:11:56 +0000
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