I could explore the contents of my heart
Explaining how I feel and what I see
Describing how I felt right from the start
And telling him the things he does to me.
I might decide to speak my thoughts for real;
Be tempted to reveal my inner state;
For how else would he know the way I feel?
Unless, of course, he sees it on my face.
I wonder if he’ll notice through my words;
And whether he’ll be easily convinced
Perhaps when first I speak, I shall be heard
But truth be told: my heart holds everything.
For when he puts his hand there, he will feel;
He’ll know it beats for him because it’s real.
Where iron and velvet meet they crush within;
And where they separate they crush without;
Imprisoned by perception, comforting
Where thoughts be nought, incarcerating doubt.
Where skepticism hides and faith be sought
And where the two sides battle oft and much;
In prison bars free thinking’s never taught;
Rare velvet gloves appease and give soft touch.
Where inner softness masquerades as hard
And where protective metal coats the cloud
A person’s mettle softens through the shards
Shared differences hid, yet love avowed.
But if a love surrenders – cold wet, dying;
Then nature’s glove gives life by velvet iron.
I would not have you fall in love with me;
For what would you do then once you are loved?
You’d wrap yourself in everything you see;
A sentiment misleading, via drug.
You’d tell me how I spin your heart and head
And speak of all the things I have you feel
You’d fall under my skin and into bed:
Where lies the full percentage of appeal.
But soon I’d be a tiresome little wretch;
Who’d fade away, too easy to ignore.
Whose old and rhyming soul falls from the edge;
Too passionate a person to endure.
Unless you are in love with poetry;
I beg you: do not fall in love with me.
He speaks to me respectfully, t’is true;
With words so fresh and sweet, unlike the rest;
He does not send me images of blue;
His heart be pure, to that I can attest.
He asks about my day, about my life;
With sentiment of pure and truthful care;
He does not ask for things that are unright;
His soul be calm and tender over there.
He looks at me: both eyes are shaped like hearts;
With visions of one future we’re both in;
He does not see me as a sep’rate part;
His mind be seeking starstuff, equal kin.
For years I was a book upon a shelf;
Yet now I read his words and read myself.
I could not warm the sadness of his heart
Despite the heat of promises within
And whilst I miss him now that we’re apart
I wonder if he thinks the things I think.
Perhaps he has imaginings like me
Where physical perfection lasts all night;
And maybe there was more for me to see;
There’s definitely more for me to write.
If I could do things diff’rently, I would
Erase my words and tempers ‘cross the miles;
Alas, I only spoke the things I should;
Not leaving room for humour there – or smiles.
If words be feelings, may I never write;
For I shall speak within, and stay polite.