It’s a different kind of muscle
that hurts with that kind of pain.
It doesn’t throb, or ache,
or stinging or even pulses and it
sure as hell isn’t helped with rum.
My god, and I sincerely beg
please don’t break my heart.
It’s a chord I don’t know;
it’s a cigarette I’ve been trying
to stop and quit.
It’s a wall you don’t want to build.
The rain that won’t stop
and the repeat of a good song.
It’s one thing when you invest
emotions and intentions
and another when it’s you.
It’s a different kind of hurt,
that is somewhere between
a light wind and a heavy cloud.
It’s the difference in knowing
better and doing better.
I could start wars for what I feel for you.
It’s like the words peel out of your mouth and float there until I’m able to digest what they mean at a harsh, face value. And they become fossils somewhere in my mind between things I’m afraid to say and, the things I’m afraid I’ve already said. I could wait on hell to freeze
before I want to know.
And that would please me to no end
because regardless of what I feel;
I’ll let you know where I’m going
when I get there with this.
The kind of girl you walk the whole earth for and give it to her.
Sometimes I’ll still on my Sly Stone
like, “If You Want Me To Stay.”
While some beautiful woman I
barely know is sending me her heart.
I know this has to confuse you
if you’ve never heard this before.
You— you’re like having the day off.
You’re like rolling down the window.
You, you’re like exhaling slowly.
You’re the beat to a good song.
You inspire spring like nothing else.
You, you’re like yellow after the rain.
You’re the perfect shade of brown.
And you are a dream to wake up to.
You might think it’s foolish with the way I stumble around you
but, you are that something missing.
And every time you speak it moves me.
Tell me, show me; how else
should I behave
when it’s so real and so right.
I wish I could say what this girl
has done to me, but I can’t.
She, is a woman.
So she knows better and so do I.
The way it feels without intentions—
the look after I’m done and
the break between conversations.
And I’m alright standing naked
left with nothing to say or feel.
She’s hogged every perfect
defense and phrase to hid behind.
I can’t do this by myself
or pretend I have.
I know being with me is unfair
because I’m moving from the pieces
or what was left from the last one.
But the promise of the better woman
I am not should be enough.
Or how, I can’t explain the depth
but all that is understood is the hurt.
There’s a science to it, oddly;
and no one said it would be this hard
but I believe in it.
It’s how you make me feel
that melts the wall around you.
And these bones know nothing
expect the chords on an acoustic,
maintaining, the city I live in
and the life I lead and entertain.
I don’t ever want to feel how I did
or realize I waited too long
to know my world to give is just as
lovely as the one we live in.
For now, how do I get to you through
my own insecurities?
I’ll try my best until
I realize I’ve waited too long.
Or, that I’m stuck in reverse
trying to fix me or in a sick way, you.
Because any place next to you
is better than winning.
The pedestal I’ve put you on makes
me feel smaller than my own words.
And that’s okay because not only
Do you hear; but, you get me.
It took more than nerve and courage
to finally write this down.
And although I’m in a different place;
It still feels like it just happened.
The consist reminder that says
more than what you can handle.
What’s left is nothing more
than the want for it to be mutual.
There is nothing more predictable
than a loyal dog and a hurt woman.
Hurt feels like raining salt
on a flesh wound.
But to give and give and to wish for
absolutely nothing in return
but mutuality is raw patience.
When you move to a new thing
and it feels the same, something
triggers and it becomes paralyzing.
“You make it so hard for me
to trust it and let it be.”
This is it and this is that.
I answer and sometimes I don’t.
She’s that amazing and a task.
Falls into place and moves again.
I can only take so much and what
my heart tolerates for now.
Because if it doesn’t hurt in the end
it never was felt truly and deeply.
There’s a sacrifice some make.
To bid your happiness to see her consumed with joy means everything.
The hardest thing to sacrifice
is yourself— it’s the only thing
you truly own or can give completely.
And there are times when
I’ve let you in too much.
Or have told you something
I haven’t repeated in years;
and hearing myself say it is scary.
You are privileged to come in
without paying or earning it.
It’s a level of trust that neither
the Koran or Solomon wrote about.
And that makes all the difference;
because this is something you
can’t predict or rebound from.
It’s like having electricity
buzzing inside your fingertips
and you can’t find an outlet
or some where to plug everything
or any little thing to release it.
That’s what creativity feels like;
or what it should do.
And love is the complete opposite
and just as powerful.