A Poem by Sally

Because I'm catastrophically vain. Thank you, Sally.




I'll try to keep it short, because otherwise I'll go on
and it'll take an age just to sort the mental threads
my thoughts of you
bind me in.


If there was any way for me to explain this eloquently
simple, poetic words
I would, but I've tried, and it just ends in unwieldy sentences
bursting with useless adjectives- soppy phrases
dripping in normalcy-
and that's what this is not (to me).


It's happening again; I'll try to contain it.
This isn't a poem, but a confession of sorts.


This isn't some appeal for romantic love- no,
too simple of course- and neither is it basic electric lust- though
perhaps I wouldn't exclude it completely. What I want from you
is surely slyer, driven from some ancient sweetened fairy tale
hiding in the back of my head, waiting
for a shining knight to exalt
the beautiful forgotten princess
old delusions, hunting for home.


What my grey cells want is in part understanding:
the return of my naive bounding adoration
for the way you can always hold a room,
the way you hold me.
I'm always drawn to those that can command
in the way I can't,
but aren't drapped in boring perfection besides.
Yes, I know I have a type.
Being unbroken is over-rated in love.
I might want you in part to make me feel whole, because somehow
somewhere along the line, I've made you keeper
of the things I wish I could be: giver
of simple tacit glory
to an even simpler stuttering mind.


If you could grant me affection, assurance,
intimacy, part of my head makes me think
that I could be free, that I would let myself be yours
for sure,
though I know from experience
that I am loathe to give myself away:
I may be romantic but you know I ain't no Juliet.
that in some perfect world your love could give
validation, finally some peace for my piecemeal mind;
that eventually in touching your skin to mine
every atom of me
would vibrate against your touch,
given the opportunity to feel it honestly.
But in reality, I think that's asking too much.


It's time to give up.




For the moment it seems I can't untangle my spinning head
into sweet little words, at least
maybe not this. It's too
boisterous, filled with my long forgotten feelings
hidden in a deep grey ancient mist.
grey cells harbouring old insecurities


I've taken to calling it 'infatuation'
because that's the least frightening of all definitions.
But with you this isn't something I fear,
because you're the only one who loves back just
enough, so instead of wrenching
it feels like something softer, warmer, sweet,
reciprocal,
a love that finally circles complete.


It seems like in the end
I can't make this poem work; this is too internal,
too filled with little parts
that make me up, senseless parts
that destruct on contact with air.
One day I will explain it
in a way that doesn't scare you, hopefully,
and maybe we can share
this silly feeling
that draws me to you so strongly.
But for now, keep close
and maybe together we can make something;
stay close, and my heart will let you in
if you want it.