They are delicate as the spider's web, and just as troublesome.
Though forthwith and brave, they are as tender as your skin,
moving to the weight of my fingers as I embellish
you with mine own lines; and,
consequentially, my words.
Though they move and they break apart, they
lack a certain luster that only the sun can
give something like the water -- an aliveness
lit up and waving as waves do weave
through the wading water.
I do not want to use words, lest they be stricken
with gravity and collapse under themselves like
lungs unable to strain longer -- or they ricochet and
in frenzy they are lost, devoid of
direction or meaning -- and,
consequentially, meaning nothing.
I do not want to recite to you songs that have been already sung,
lyrics that have already been played, music, poems,
stories told, actions been acted, scenes been seen,
lies that have been laid as heavy a burden on you
as I ever would wish you endure.
I am at a crossed road, and stand I here at this section
inspired but unmoved, impassioned but not spurred,
empowered, not charging, not seizing, not open nor awake.
Were you to simply request that I love you,
I would give,
wordlessly, and delicately.