Knocking on Your Door.
It feels like I’ve forgotten, the art of conversation
When I ask you questions on my mind.
The intimacy of spending time.
I can’t help but think that this still isn’t about you.
I want to delight in your world, share in your garden.
But that’s still me.
I haven’t really considered you.
But how can I know you, if I’m never let in
to the room that is the testament of you.
I cannot help but think, such knocks are not so innocent
I may yearn and childishly hope-
but what if to the other it is a wolfish grin?
What if such sounds are nothing more than a demand of domination?
What if that thought is simple sickened by academic pollution?
What if my affection is an abomination,
a demand of obligation.
You’re not obliged to love me.
But what does that mean,
when we’ve spent so many dreams.
What do they mean? These messages we glean, from words spoken and unspoken, shared or hidden in seams?
What do we gain? Is it worth these grains and glimpses- momentary crumbs of wish and want become actuality?
Such a simple question.
Such a loaded gun.
“I Love You.”
Round or weapon blunt.
“There is no fear in Love.”
So are you not the one?
How do I share?
How do I say?
How is this harder than a transmission to space?
How is it easier to watch you walk away?
I’m still thinking about me.
Maybe that’s the problem.