I’ve stopped counting the weight
each letter of your name carries
even though when I look up at the sky,
all the stars are still in place.
You are earth shattering,
and it’s felt like travelling
through light years
to accommodate your resolution-
exhilarating, exciting, exponentially tiring.
I have needed to silence the quake of
my heart’s anatomy.
I never wished to play
this game of ‘let me guess’,
I wandered too far
up your dress.
Learnt limitations, nonetheless.
I’ve been weary, but won’t regress.
Still believing in the
should have been the could
with the will to turn to a would.
What if a woodchuck could chuck wood?
Pff! Oh, what of this proverbial critter?
What’s with all this bullshit
syntax and semantics in a dither,
right?- no!- wait, then who gives…?- wrong!- what?
I mean, who am I anyway?
lest assumptions start assuming
in mental jurisdictions of
a kangaroo court
where I’d rather swallow my tongue,
feed it to the frog in my throat
every time you dissect a sentence,
turning sentiment into a sentence
as though this were
Biology class gone rogue and
rather than use a scalpel for dissection,
we’re reduced to etymological discussion.
But since this is poetry,
I’ve taken the care out of careful
to unravel displaced bigotry.
Through 1000 thoughts, their reconfigurations and
evenings I’ve left open
with wishful reservations;
I have been in love,
but never right enough
since you pushed interest back enough,
of course we don’t hang often- enough.
All the reasons why I am not enough,
reflect a definition that lacks enough.
I remember waking to
the irony of your name,
remembering my thoughts:
Enough is enough, is enough my love?
But the heart doesn’t wait for love to answer questions.
I still planted the cedar trees of my heart for you,
so that even if you were to lose me,
and I were left with naught a clue,
I could never really lose you.
See I own the seeds of intention,
much to my gravest contention.