"What I Have to Give"

I could go through the dictionary in every language I know, could spell out the words that make my heartstrings hum, could try and share my thoughts on sounds and visions. I could do all of these things and more just for you, but it wouldn’t make a difference. Although I move and speak without effort, I also have no impact, which makes my entire life meaningless. What would you say if I told you? He wrote for me an ode, would you write for me a sonnet? He composed for me a suite, would you compose for me a symphony? He bought for me a mirror, would you buy for me an ivory tower? Can you make these promises? I think not, because you’ve yet to witness my selflessness, and what are promises if they have no backbones? They do nothing but fill the aether, like these useless words of mine. I hear them saying it again and again: you’re beautiful. They think your years leave you tarnished, but in my eyes, the many passing suns gild you. You are the old oak tree, shoulders curved by hard times and with many rings. I can’t come out and say it anymore than I already have, it hurts too bad to admit my weakness as is. I’ve floated in and out of these beds like a wandering wind, but you are my riptide, seizing me and never letting go. I could fight against these feelings, these vulnerabilities, but there’s no honor in dishonesty. Instead, I keep the cadence close to my breast and push the fear away. I don’t care anymore for the what-ifs and their cunning ways of fooling me. I remember when the words were satisfaction enough. They were the only savior I desired, but minds change, don’t they? People may not, with their bad habits like baggage, but minds are amorphous in their fluidity. I can’t take this any longer, and I will make these promises with the only strength I have left: my fading words. I could lie to you, and there’s no one to say I haven’t already, but these words mean the world to me. You are my sun’s breath, my amber, my opal, my jet, my round river stone, my ember, and my bruised moon. You are my foxglove, my wisteria, my daffodil, my tulip, my rosehip, my snapdragon, my orchid, my lavender, my poppy, my ivy, my baby’s breath, my lily, and my nightshade. You are my opium, my dead sea, my coffin, and my blood. You are my vicodin, my blade, my pistol, and my archangel. You are my cock, my cunt, my delirium, my euphoria, my submission, my dusk, my dawn, my twilight, my synthesis, my dust, my raindrop, my globe, my comet, my star, my mercury, and my oxygen. I need you more than even these words, as they do no justice to my desires. They mean nothing without you. I find no more use for rhyme or reason, reduced instead to just throwing together these letters in a composition I hope will be found comprehendible, because I’m past coherency. I’m losing my mind in these pages and I swear my soul is drained syllable by syllable—the energy is overwhelming. Is this what it feels like—insanity? If so, I wish I could tell you how it feels…like running through the snow without shoes and across the beach without clothes, like waking from a flying dream to realize you have wings, like laughing when you should be crying, like going to sleep and seeing fireworks behind your eyes, like feeling the hum of your favorite song coursing through your body. The dreams, the chill, the numb, the sleep, and the melody—it all sweeps you away, lets you hang from the sky like a bird on a wire. But, I pay in beats for blow, and trust me when I say it catches up. I’m tattered as an old rag doll, limbs limp and mouth cotton-dry. Is it worth it? I’m not sure, but it does grant me my dreams in a fashion. I have you, here in my arms, here in my world, if only for a little while. The panic does creep in with awareness, but the anxiety decays bit by bit and along comes courage. It’s no longer a question of lust, is it? No more fucking or fooling around, it wears me down and leaves me with glassy eyes. I swear I can show you what it’s like to live a dream instead of a life on a chain. To breathe air that is crisp as paper bags and thin enough to bite. I’ll tell you what it’s like to be truly happy once more and forever on. It’s waking up in a tent and unzipping the door, then going outside to find dew on the moss and newts in the river. It’s shaving your head and spinning in circles with arms outstretched in the afternoon sun, no matter the season, and until you fall the ground in a heap of dizzied joy. It’s running through the streets in a stupor of any sort and not being sure where you’re headed. It’s realizing that the place you stay is no house, but the place you live is a home. It’s calling to the birds and being willing to get stared at. It’s a pat on the back when you’ve done well and a teasing smack across the cheek when you’ve fucked up. It’s taking what you deserve, and forgetting the rest. It’s diving headfirst into water so cold that it hits you like a knife in the chest, followed by lying in the heat of the day. It’s amazing, it’s an achievement in itself, and it’s all you could ever wish for. It feels like being clean again, purity after such a long stint of self-destruction. It feels like heaven, floating in clouds soft as a breeze. It feels like having you here with me, with your fingers wrapped around mine.