Inmates
They will remember
the sound of each other’s
pain better than the warmth
of another human being.
25.
24.
She likens herself
to an explorer, and him,
a treasure chest in a vessel
submerged in the sea:
to plunge headfirst
into the water,
to surrender to the cold,
and to wish that maybe
if she searches hard
enough, long enough,
she will find an answer
to the darkness
that finds home
in the endless caverns
of his eyes.
23.
I wish I could write a poem about beautiful things, about grand things, things like the way you see this world and the way you listen to music and the way you care and the way you love. I wish I could write a poem cataloguing each and every single thing you do for me and each and every single thing you don’t. But for years I have tried to pen down every little thought to encompass you as a being and the ink is running dry in my ribcage for no words could encompass what is you and what is me and what is us and all that’s left is something so simple and so clear and yet so raw in its brashness. So instead I will write a poem about things like the curl of your lips or the cadences in your honeyed voice when you say I love you, about things like the whisper of unfurled leaves or the whistle of the wind as they caress your blushing cheeks; the crinkles in the corners of your eyes, the lines of prophecy on your waiting palms, the hollows and dips and curves and rises of your mouth. So instead I will write a poem about the way the moon sews itself into your hair and the way the sun breathes and sings on your face, golden like air and all the more beautiful and all the more necessary. So instead I will write a poem about you, about me, about us, and hope that this will be enough.
