The inability to put emotions into words is something to make a poet hang her head in shame. But you make the words in my pen sink and settle into my stomach, where they flutter without being realized. You make me burn scarlet. I long to tangle the curls on your head with the curls on mine. I long to feel your warmth and your leathery brown skin, and I long to intertwine your big hands with my small ones. You draw this fire from me that scares me, terrifies me, makes me yearn like the young ones do in love. But this is not love. This is not Earth and this is not Heaven. This does not make the moon shine in its pregnant fullness, nor does it make the stars blink the heavy tears away. It is simply a teardrop flame trickling through my veins, one that makes drives me wild, one that will surely, with time, flicker madly and burn out like the others before it, until it simply melts into dusty words on a page.
Maybe It's Cabin Fever by J. D. Bennett
Poetry » General Rated: T, English, Poetry, Words: 4k+, Favs: 2, Follows: 2, Published: 4/6/2010 Updated: 8/14/2011}
43 Chapter 24: E