knocking

to have a mouth with which to speak to you {poetry}

I’m knocking, and I’m knocking, and I’m knocking,

my lips are clumsy bruises that fumble the night away–

but oh, that I can speak to you with these knocking jaws,

to have a face–any face at all–for you to touch and hold,

to have eyes for your eyes to cradle,

to possess hopes only so you may slumber in them,

to have words–any at all, and none sufficient–with which I may construct your divinity;

my sentences have aligned as stepping stones, each placed precariously to thread myself to you.

I am not a girl of plenty, the only things I possess in incessancy are the knocking, and the words.

But to have a mind, this mind, that I may give you a house within–

to have a tongue, this tongue, with which I may lap at the honey-sweet of your thoughts–

that is enough.

For your settled roving has proven this body sufficient,

you were the one to gently peer within my specialness, and you were the one who was romanticized by what you found.

It was you who came knocking at my door,

and it was you who claimed this blessèd mouth

before I could once more clatter my tongue and scare the stars away.

author’s note:

almost used the wrong version of blessèd! close one.

good old fashioned yearning. gotta love it,