words are a meager thing at the bottom of a grave

words are a meager thing at the bottom of a grave

“Salander couldn’t breath….[S]he realized…that she was buried under ground.”

The Girl Who Played with Fire, Stieg Larsson

i am sorry that you are beautiful

that the curve of your jaw and neck

the angle of your ankle to foot

and your hands your hands

all all of you yes all

makes me ache to be right next to you

the words that come out of your mouth

and your mouth

the laughter that rises from your chest

and your chest

and the dozens of ways you have worn your hair

over the sixteen years i’ve known you walk on this planet

i am smitten enamored and pining in your trance

your electrifying faerie dust and pheromones 

i am sorry because this all sounds superficial

the hollowness of a man thinking with his hands

and the burden of my love like a shovel full of dirt

words are a meager thing at the bottom of a grave

but it is all i have

it is my complete resignation in a mine field

to the one thing that is me and true

except this isn’t quite true

at least not as true as this:

i wish my longing was what you wanted of me

my hands reaching for you

like a man buried alive trying to dig free

for the oxygen that pales beside you