klc; 07.04.09

There's something elemental in the way you are.



As if, by some divine right, rivers pebble away anything superficial to your tawny skin. Or maybe it's just that you have better things to do with your time, like educate yourself about absolutely everything. You immerse yourself within things I can only begin to comprehend; complex calculus has always been more up your alley than my own.




Even your writing, your creativity, has the spark of rhythmic science necessary to anything you touch. It breathes; it pulses; much like your chest's heavy breathing under mine and last night's July rainstorm. I could never begin to compare to what you've written me -- of course it's no contest, and I'd never try, but sometimes I feel at a disadvantage to your eloquent consonants. & here I am again, speaking in semicolons and dashes, breaking up wordplay with clumsy pauses. I've always been too clumsy; I shouldn't even be alive, for the number of times I've tripped. You say I have grace, but you've never noticed the way the word oozes from you in masculine ripples down your back.


Gravity. Now there's a concept.
Tripping is what I do best, though. I tripped into you, remember? Before you, gravity never held much importance. I never climbed the monkey bars for fear of falling, though I loved the height. Woodchips leave scars, you know. But you.. you took the jagged pavement beneath my scraped knees and glossed it with rainbow leaves and summertime wildflowers. You kissed my scars with sunshine and made them disappear.








Now, I'm jumping from buildings to enjoy the fall. I no longer anticipate the ground; instead, I have faith like a foolish girl that you're going to come with your kryptonite cape and fiveyearold grin and save me more swiftly than Superman.
                                                        I'm never disappointed.







If you haven't guessed, this is for you. You mean more to me than any metaphorical description of your attributes could explain (of course you know this, after two years, but I'm one to restate the obvious). Your eyes are lie-detecting uncut emeralds, yet you aren't any of the cliches I could muster. You're not my savior, as some may think, because you're not one for religion. Rather, you're the superhero to my unsuspecting female lead. You are my mixed metaphor; my reason for the dashes and semicolons and parentheses, because you are the pause to my life. You make me take stock of everything just when I'm talking too quickly and making no sense.

You are my own personal Autumn; sturdy and solid enough to withstand an oncoming storm, yet temperate and lovely enough to understand when I need a more femininely-connotated word to describe your manly personality.



This is for you, love,
because poetry doesn't
explain anything close
to how I feel about you.






                                      There's something elemental within you.