Saturday, October 8, 2011
I cannot love. This heart is a forest
and I don't need flowers
or insensitivity, like a cold rock thrown in an ice blue sleep. I don't need words
of praise or peace
or hands to build a house amidst my leaves; i am a blowing thing
of rampant insecurities and dashing,
thriving beasts; I don't need lips
to touch sweetly, nor a trail blazed, nor fellow tree to spend dark evenings
amidst the howling, hushing brush; I ache already
in the moist morning
where your feet have trampled
Maybe I am dreaming of what love is supposed to be.
You cannot fill me, as no one can
for a creature's heart is empty. And I
am not that vase or glass, not fine
enough to fill myself with sand;
What is as hollow
as your cupped hands?
Love is small, and five fingers can hold nothing.