Reblogged from wordgup
your hands were always
my favorite part of you.
like a sculptor, i had visions
of you molding something
out of my broken
wayward heart,
turning it into something
more beautiful.
we were art and artists,
you and i.
pulling ourselves together
and tearing each other apart;
pulling each other together
and tearing ourselves apart.
we were Gaudi-esque, dancing away
from straight lines and curling
ourselves into nooks and crannies,
into squiggles and dots and dashes,
into curves and waves;
lollygagging around the truth
because there’s no such thing-
it’s just a temporary distraction
from the aching of our hearts:
the making of art.
i remember that afternoon
when you kissed my knees
over and over for hours;
when I twirled my fingers
through the curls of your
hair; when
we rested our heads on
each other’s shoulders,
and let our fingers twist around
the other’s like the roots
of trees planted
next to each other.
and, amid our kisses,
breathing life into our tired limbs,
we carved ourselves into timber,
we hammered nails into ourselves
and built a cathedral.
© (2009)
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