outdex


behind the door
i hear you read
my thoughts aloud,

perplexed

by a maze of rooms
that each
appear exactly like the next

with incense candles
and mirrors for walls

because i reflect
in spirit
the parts of you
i rarely see at all.

but do not be misled;

i know your dark secrets
that conspire to
make do with the dementia

from being alone,
on the other side,

without my eyes
to gaze into
when you need the attention.

loneliness serves to make you discover
those schemes
and hidden agendas:

the feelings that you have for me
cause continental shifts, and

obscure desires
i confess at length,

but keep private altogether,

are strung tight into your tether
as if they were
our marriage vows
or spiritual endeavors.

these are things that,
if you say so

i would gladly leave to chance,

and, on a whim,
invite you to dance

with your hands
upon my hips

while
demurely-blown kisses
fancy my lips

on your
skin, your
genitals, or

your conscience.

what if the door before you
were left ajar

so you might prowl
among the meanings
of these consonants and vowels

only

to stumble
upon me naked
in the shower,

with a vague hint
of a scowl,
asking sheepishly for my towel?

i believe
you would be satisfied then,

having seen me in the flesh
and when
occasional strokes of the pen
have hatched the bulk
of my golden eggs,

you’ll still have my hens

and i’ll have tiny feathered friends
that can’t
stand on their own two legs.

there is logic
in this play
on words,
and what cannot be expressed
remains equally
as poetic
as the things that must be heard.

behind the door, i hear you
contemplate my thoughts and weigh

the pros and cons
of wanting more
than just conjectures
as to whether i
wear my heart upon
my breast,

or slice my wrists
until the blood flows
through my hands

like an untamed river;
i beg to differ,
you must understand,

there is logic
in these walls i erect,
and the things
i dare expose
are as fragile,
i suppose
as what i’m wiser to protect.




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