Title: Lavender
There are times it's hard to say,
When you say it so much better;
You have words in your mouth, clear and courageous
Brave enough to leap forth and make
grand declarations.
In my mouth words are caught and stuck
Tangled by reaching branches of scattered thoughts
and a mind that automatically reaches for
eloquence over meaning.
Simplicity then, I hope
Stark, crisp and unencumbered by dithering and circling
Round the fact.
I love you:
Your eyes, your beautiful eyes, they suffer in description because they sound cliché--
Flecks of gold suspended in clear blue, Jesus Christ, how cliché
The sudden dark moods you have, that panic me
The irony of how you scold me for insecurities then decry yourself
Your need to be different,
constant and aggressive
Your constant desires both frustrating and exhilarating
You're so intense (like Cirque du Soleil) you wear me out
bit by delicate bit
but you fall down with me
Your humor, your glares
How you fight over volume and
who gets to driv.
Your hands, I have told you before, I love your hands
Gentle and skilled
Strong and honest,
If you were in a story you would be the virtuous woodcutter with your hands.
Your laugh, especially the silly high one
Your voice, of course and always, your bitter dark chocolate voice.
Your appreciation of the female form
(though most appreciated when directed at myself)
Your harshness, your truthfulness, your occasional cruelties, your ego
I love them.
If I could wrap you in words and hold you close to me
Maybe I wouldn't
but I would never not want to.
There are words about feelings in the young
But in the moment, in this now, I don't care because
We are.
We exist.
There is something, something exists
Sweet and harsh
Enveloped in the faint scent of
lavender in the dark.
Happy Birthday, Ian.
When you say it so much better;
You have words in your mouth, clear and courageous
Brave enough to leap forth and make
grand declarations.
In my mouth words are caught and stuck
Tangled by reaching branches of scattered thoughts
and a mind that automatically reaches for
eloquence over meaning.
Simplicity then, I hope
Stark, crisp and unencumbered by dithering and circling
Round the fact.
I love you:
Your eyes, your beautiful eyes, they suffer in description because they sound cliché--
Flecks of gold suspended in clear blue, Jesus Christ, how cliché
The sudden dark moods you have, that panic me
The irony of how you scold me for insecurities then decry yourself
Your need to be different,
constant and aggressive
Your constant desires both frustrating and exhilarating
You're so intense (like Cirque du Soleil) you wear me out
bit by delicate bit
but you fall down with me
Your humor, your glares
How you fight over volume and
who gets to driv.
Your hands, I have told you before, I love your hands
Gentle and skilled
Strong and honest,
If you were in a story you would be the virtuous woodcutter with your hands.
Your laugh, especially the silly high one
Your voice, of course and always, your bitter dark chocolate voice.
Your appreciation of the female form
(though most appreciated when directed at myself)
Your harshness, your truthfulness, your occasional cruelties, your ego
I love them.
If I could wrap you in words and hold you close to me
Maybe I wouldn't
but I would never not want to.
There are words about feelings in the young
But in the moment, in this now, I don't care because
We are.
We exist.
There is something, something exists
Sweet and harsh
Enveloped in the faint scent of
lavender in the dark.
Happy Birthday, Ian.