Worth

Some girls are cute, but not dating material.
I call them eye candy
because I will look without touching,
the way I eat on a diet.
Some girls are cool, but not what I’m attracted to.
I’ll call them friends and they tell me I’m too picky
or just need to get laid.
But, I don’t believe in having sex without love,
so let’s just say, it’s been awhile.

When I fall, it’s hard and fast,
in the heart of fairytales and plot of movies,
in the mind of inpatients and gambling fools.
Nobody understands, nobody fully “gets” how,
but I know someday, somebody will.

I know who I want that person to be,
I know her soul like my relationship with words
that can never fully be told.
At all times she’s the most beautiful thing I can think
and her eyes are my favorite color in the world.

I can’t know what I know,
but I know what I feel
and if the odds are one in a million that I’m right
I would waste years of my life alone, unwilling to fold and pay the house.
My friends will shake their heads and pray for my heart,
but I have never been so rattled in my nerves
or more sure in my bones
what she is worth.

No Wrong

It’s not just that she’s beautiful.
A single word could never be assigned to her
like government issued numbers designed to abridge people by some mindless keystroke
and neatly box up whole lives once over.
It’s not about her looks, though she is truly stunning up close.
I’m talking about her as a whole.
It’s in the details that are seldom told first
when someone is so attractive that it’s just what comes out of your mouth
uncalculated, like natural order or primal urge.

But really, it’s not just that she’s pretty,
it’s how she carries herself like she’s never been told.
It’s that she’s patient and kind,
in the most sincere manner I’ve ever witnessed,
in the way that love has been described.

It’s not just that she’s different,
it’s how she gets along with absolutely everyone,
sees the best in them and doles out full body hugs that could reverse
the entire damage of a day.

It’s not just that she’s great,
in the broadest, most celebrated use of the adjective;
it’s that she’s a force that cannot be assigned a value
or taken for granted.
Her energy is striking and glows from a distance.
It’s not just that she’s positive,
it’s what comes off her and moves into you
like unexpected warmth from a bit of sun during winter.
It’s the scent in the air before spring arrives
that gets you excited about weather
and makes you feel like good things are coming.

It’s not just that she’s vibrant,
it’s how she can affect the tone of everything happening around her by having fun,
like keeping all the lights on at night and never checking the time
can keep you from going to bed.
She can arrest your attention the way hours pass and make you feel disoriented,
as though you must have traveled, while sitting perfectly still.
That’s how I forget to look away, feeling so embarrassed,
but she just gives me those eyes and straight lips
without any expression to suggest she minds,
so I try again.

It’s not just that she’s secure,
it’s that she’s clearly so comfortable in her own skin
you see what you’re missing by not feeling the same
and have to start.
It’s not like she is an isolated event, case or trend
she is an entire movement
wherever she happens to be
and it is something you will want to be able to say you were part of
as you get on in age,
one of those things you fight to remember towards the end,
like the first person you kissed and how real food tastes.

It’s not just that she’s full of grace,
it’s that she always appears to be cool, calm and collected
at times and in places it should not be possible.
She’s stern but lenient,
serious but also playful and spirited.

It’s not just that she’s remarkable.
She’s the most empathetic, mature, old soul
deceptively stored in a young body.
It so closely resembles my own,
I want to know
who we were to each other in our past lives
and continue to repeat it over and over.

It’s not just that she’s smart,
she speaks with authority and intellect,
in proper English and full sentences
when so many people now, use slang
like a universal dialect.
It’s just refreshing to hear
and I love her voice.

It’s not just that she’s cultured,
she’s real.
She could wear sweatpants
and make you feel underdressed.
She could do absolutely nothing with her hair
but add a headband or a couple of well placed clips
and make you think she just came from the salon.
She doesn’t need make-up or lipstick,
even though I’ve never seen firsthand, I can tell
she wakes up beautiful and doesn’t need to add
illusions or anything padded before stepping out of the house.

It’s not just that she’s got style,
it’s how she dances with anybody that asks,
like it was the easiest, least scary thing to do in a full room.
Even when she’s sitting, she’ll dance with her shoulders
and make it look like a new concentration or school.
It’s not just that she’s good,
when she moves her hips and really commits, oh man.
When my whole life flashes before my eyes someday,
that’s the part I’ll be waiting to re-experience.
It’s not even about being aroused,
it’s just the most incredible thing I’ve ever watched.
I hear certain songs and picture her dancing to them,
I go into a sort of trance, another place in my head
where I won’t be caught or have to stop.
It’s only for a few seconds,
but instantly lifts my mood
like leaving work or getting good news.

It’s not just that she makes me happy
without trying to.
It’s how she smiles
ear to ear and up to sparkling eyes
when the kids jump, hug and squeeze me in front of her
while other staff judge, criticize or croon about boundaries.
It’s not the kind of smile you can name
or ever get tired of seeing.
It’s the kind of smile reserved for those things that touch your heart
and restore faith.
I fell in love with that smile and it will always be my favorite.

It’s not just that she’s a good person,
she’s a good, good woman.
It’s not just that she is an angel,
it’s that no matter how hard I try to feel nothing,
to be negative and too sorry for myself to keep going,
I fail.
I see her and I should have no reason to hope,
to smile and enjoy her like something I have.
But my heart will not stay broken,
will not lie down and be still like a dead issue when she’s around.
I can feel sad, upset and jealous.
I can drink and punch walls
for maybe all of a day before I get rebooted by a sighting or a song.
It’s the damndest thing but I swear,
she can do no wrong.

Withdrawal

I hoped you would be here,
but could not have known, toying with odds and percentages like a gambler
with his house and car keys ready to become chips.
I tried to look nice but ended up in shorts and sandals in the interest of comfort and the chances of boredom.
I turned to the sound of the door expecting to be let down,
to instead recognize your brightly colored tee
and recently cut hair walking like scrambled parts of a word I cannot properly pronounce.
I whimpered under my breath and buried my face in my hands
like I did not want you to be there,
but really I was just praying to not be embarrassed,
asked to speak or participate in any demonstration
or expected to focus on anything more then the back of your head
while I fidget and fret just inches from your heart shaped earrings and peripheral vision.

Roles reverse as the focal point of the room moves.
Now I am in the front and you can watch me without any qualm,
which occurs to me in an uncomfortable sense of karma I feel from behind.
So, I turn to check my paranoia and feed denied voyeurism
to find your eyes fixed on mine as if dreaming, but why?
Was it curiosity forming or just you returning the favor like an unwelcome gift?
In any case, I looked immediately away and felt like my face was on fire,
afraid to return to your direction like a store I had shoplifted from.
I felt my throat close and could not breath properly until all the attention in the room shifted back to the speaker where he started.
I watched your body turn away from me and could suddenly exhale
as if I had been underwater.

In that two hour training, I felt both trapped and incredibly blessed.
You frequently combed the back of your hair with your hands and fingernails
as if you were afraid it was too short
and I wanted so badly to be reassuring.
To move up my seat and whisper, “Nothing in this world you change about yourself
could ever subtract an ounce of beauty from that face.”
But it would have been inappropriate and weird,
so I just sat there, humored
at the thought of you being the least bit self conscious
when you are so fucking beautiful I should have to pay
for every time that I look
like service negotiated from passenger seats.

To me, your face is heroin or LSD.
It’s not the gateway drug, but the ultimate high.
When I see you, it’s good.
It’s a happy pill I can swallow without water,
a head rush that won’t keep me from driving or reporting to work.
There is nothing like this feeling that can be replicated without you being there
like a main ingredient, the central piece.
You are it, my weakness, my vice, my peculiar fetish
I could never explain like an acquired taste that could eventually be shared.

What I hate, is what comes after,
like a cruel repossession so close to payday.
I have these days like a lottery won, like Christmas observed,
then weeks of nothing.
I expect to see you, then don’t.
I see you driving or we speak briefly, but it’s all work.
I want to get personal, up close, only to fall short.
You are so far away in a sense, but I am so drawn to you
I think it’s got to mean something, but then it doesn’t.

I can’t lie
and say that I’ve never felt this way before
because really……there’s always someone.
But, I’ve never seen anything through.
I’ve been cautious and always, always had an exit strategy
like a fire drill.
But this job means too much for me to leave
and something about you is different than anything else I’ve ever been strung out on
like an unnamed narcotic that cannot be restricted.
Around you, my heart feels overworked and all my nerves spasm.
I imagine my pupils dilated and feel all the blood in my body rush to my face,
my arms are weightless and always out of place, my legs are heavy and ready to buckle
as if willing to beg.
Why anybody would chase these feelings like a desired effect
is beyond me but not really lost.
I would be a hypocrite to say otherwise, to suggest I have been without fault.
After all, I am an addict
and when you’re not around, for however long
what I feel, is nothing short of withdrawal.

Perfect

 

 

You cannot be this.
But, if anybody has ever so fully embodied a word
that a portrait should enter the dictionary like a scientist in church,
it would be you and yours.
I have never personally seen an aura
but when you wear white clothes, I think that I just have.
Logic and reason are not strengths of mine,
but like unidentified flying objects must eventually land,
I have to stop to acknowledge that the way I see you
could be no more reliable than an uncommon light in the sky.

You are not infallible.
You have faults and flaws,
unattractive qualities and bad habits. I mean, you must.
I just don’t know what they are.
I am tempted to launch a truth seeking mission,
to go directly to the source and ask boldly, “what’s your story?”
But, perhaps getting closer would only spoil the teaser
like reading a good book backwards.
So, I will refrain from skipping ahead.
I will let the chips fall like leaves in the wind
and not try to guess about speed or direction.
Who am I to question a gift of the earth?

I am not who you want.
This should be discouraging, disparaging, certainly reason to look elsewhere
and yet, I cannot.
You seek appendages God did not give me in this life
but I am willing to wait for the next
if at some point I could have a chance to reserve your time
by a dance card or diamond.
If I were a man, I would be on my knees in less than a year,
instead I pray that you get sick of their kind and open your mind, to me.

I want so badly to convey you to an audience,
but the first word that comes is so overused and trite.
It can describe landscapes and other people’s faces,
but not anything that you’re like.
You deserve more.
Something better than my writing abilities will ever procure.
Something like a myth
that can not ever be proved,
told over and over as if knowing came from appearing sure.
You walk towards me
and I labor as hard as birth to seem indifferent while feeling short of breath.
But, when your eyes are lowered or your back turned,
I abandon shame like a winter coat in a heated room.
I watch you brush hair from your face,
rest a hand around your waist like a lover would from the rear.
I watch you walking away
and how your arms sway as if part of some improv ballet.
I think “my God”
and wish there was a word as unique and unused as anything that you do
but there’s nothing else I can say.

You make your own earrings and are a walking peace sign,
some would write you off as a hippie
or bible thumper by your bumper sticker, but I doubt anything about you is that simple.
If it was, I would not be so arrested and could have stopped writing after two sentences.
Instead, I am intrigued ad nauseam
and at a loss to disprove
the existence of…… perfect
in EVERY occasion of your presence.

When and How

 

This is madness.
Nonsensical, unadulterated lunacy I cannot defend.
By now, I should be on something else.
I should be writing about depression, bitter disappointment
or other wrongs of the world that revolve around me
like a solar system knocked off course.
I am so hopelessly stuck,
I cannot say or write enough about you to be any less.

I gave up last summer when I wrote you off as a crush that would pass.
I gave up some time that December
when I was shown more than one Christian Christmas card
signed Jessi Mae.
I gave up in February, when you were so surprised and replied “I don’t….”
before interrupted my raised hand.
I wonder now what the whole sentence was going to be, but I will never ask.
I gave up a few weeks ago, when I got drunk and decided
I would not do anything purposely to see you again.
I give up after every event of you not paying attention,
only to relapse at the next sight of your face like an involuntary resetting.

You belong to a church, lead bible study and sing psalms‘.
It’s obviously such a significant part of who you are,
in anyone else, it would have been a deal breaker, a turn off.
But in you, it’s made me want to get closer to God.
It made me want to go buy a guitar
and sing acoustic versions of soft rock ballads by your side
in a setting that would never be appropriate
the moment I was told you play keyboard and have a good voice.
You are there every Tuesday, but I won’t go, I wouldn’t belong there,
staring at you instead of genuinely being involved.
Worshipping you like a false idol probably wouldn’t be a step closer to your heart.

You act much older than I suspect you are.
In the fall and winter, wrapped up in colorful scarves and button up sweaters,
pulling them close, walking around with a hot mug of tea
like a little old lady trying to feel held by her own arms and warm clothes.
I have never in my life seen something more endearing than you in that season
and there’s nothing I’ve wanted more than to be the one that gets to hold you
when you go home and trade those things out for a blanket.

Off paper, I have always been the most private person,
but I talk about you to all sorts of people,
at times for some bit of advice or unneeded approval
but mostly, because it simply cannot be helped.
After I’ve seen you, I walk around in this congested fog,
feeling bottled, implosive, restless and
full of exclamations that just, have to be made
if I expect to live.
My friends have said you are cute, have pretty eyes
and don’t look straight.
But I say you are beautiful, devastatingly, disarmingly so
and the first time I really looked into your eyes I said
I could hear angels playing instruments.
Waiting for them to meet mine is like waiting for medicine to take effect.
Waiting for you to see me the way that I see you
seems more relevant than your orientation and how sure you may feel about what that is.
The way that you make me try to be a better person
even when you are not watching is probably more important
than whether or not you ever come around,
but by now
you should know that I won’t be thinking, talking, writing or dreaming of anything else but when and how.