You say she has Venus in her eyes
and that
when she looks at you,
you can feel your skin melt
into pooling wells of
possibiilty.
You can be anyone or anything
in that moment
when her eyelash flutters,
and Venus
perches mishcievously upon your frame
but I think sometimes,
you are still a little boy
trading gently used toys
for something shinier and new
still a little boy who chases fireflies in late evening,
plucking them solidly from the air,
( your fingers, made to play guitar
have always been so good at catching things.)
simply because you want that glow
that out of this world m a g n e t i c
glow,
to cover you completely
until your tender skin is nothing
but a patchwork jumble of light.
But I have never looked good
trapped in blue mason jars...
and we (I hate to admit it.)
are not candy kissing, birthday party
teepee dwelling little boys and girls
anymore.
We have grown. Emerged shyly
from the hem of mother's dress,
and I am now just a woman
with nothing but soft skin
and my insides to give.
Gently used, I prefer our soft love
to wild theatrics...
prefer the slope
of your shoulders
and the dip
of your back
to anything shinier
or new.
You say she has Venus in her eyes...
and that when she looks at you,
you can merge
into any being.
But Venus has always been so good
at catching things...
and polishing the exterior (Ego).
She has no fire at all
to give you.
And I think
it makes no difference
that she has Venus
in her eyes.
Jupiter
has been brewing
in mine for
twenty-three odd
years
and when I look at you,
I see nothing but the little boy
who chases fire
wanting to be something
different than what he is
not knowing that the freckles
splashed across his back
are more moving to me
than a thousand intricately
thought out poems...
She has offered you the world
and whatever it is
you want to be.
And I
have offered you nothing
but my insides
and soft skin
craving the fullness
of who you are.
(Sometimes, I think little boys
trade their toys
in haste.)
