Friday, March 12, 2004

MARCH 12, 2004 (FRIDAY)

Reading: "Stargirl" by Jerry Spinelli
Listening to: Joss Stone's "The Soul Sessions"

(Both I owe to Atsi Tin! Tenkyu!)



Because I Don't Know How Else To Express Myself Tonight

So this is why love poems
are never about the times

between. And I've used
too many cliches to describe you:

you are the wind beneath
my wings, or you lift me up

beyond the clouds, or
if you are feeling rather naughty

tonight: you fill me up.
But after my litany

of moons and stars and riverbends
and little delicate glass objects

that reflect the afternoon light,
in the end, you are

all the cheesy love songs
that play on early-morning FM radio;

the quiet moments in movie theatre
when we watch the credits roll;

the coffeehouse conversations
and the walks that have forgotten

the beginnings and endings
because all that matters is this:

this moment stolen from time,
since love is always about transience.

Spilling

So I cried tonight, hot tears spilling from my eyes, in the taxi on the way home. He held me close, not minding the fact that I was staining his shirt with saline. The whole evening, after the movie, I had been trying not to cry. Relief and amazement and love makes a heady brew, and in the middle of the night, anything was possible. So I cried. I suppose everything he's said to me for the past few days has finally caught up with me.

That I am his world.

That he has finally accepted me into his life.

That he is mine.

That he loves me.

That he loves me.

That he loves me.

No comments:

Post a Comment

This is a comment box. It is for comments. Please do not leave your Giant Squid of Anger here.