I cling to you
When the world scratches
And howls like a wolf.
A place that's well lit,
Safe from harm.
I find my way to you
Following the echo
Of the howl.
Hoping that it doesn't
Recede before I am there.

The world around is more
Dangerous at night,
Broken branches, the chitter
Of odd and hungry creatures.
I, too, hunger to find you
Before its too late,
Willing to scratch and claw
On this unkempt, jagged edge.

Its much too cold away from you.
The warmth of your skin,
The fire of your heart.
I can feel it pulsate
through my veins. When the world
Goes mad,
And begins to howl
in hunger.
Your chest is the shelter
I turn to, the only place
The world hasn't gotten to.

In distant silence, an ache lingers like a forgotten song,
a haunting melody that echoes through
the hollows of an empty home.

Each separation,
a poignant note in the music of longing.
The desire to convey the depth of absence becomes restrained vulnerability where a heart yearns for more than routine inquiries—
a connection that transcends the ordinary.

Yet, in the vast expanse,
the unspoken lingers as a melancholic language,
a narrative of desire and restraint.

Frustration emerges from unmet desires,
a delicate dance where the fear of vulnerability clashes
with the yearning for profound connection.

Silently, the heart navigates the surface,
resisting the urge to delve into the intricacies of emotions.

Now, a choice is made to reveal little,
to traverse the silence with a delicate grace,
as the unexpressed yearns to be heard in the still expanse.

Memories of closeness
You ponder on the thought

How it used to be, shouldn’t be,
And how you think it ought

Bare bodies in oblivion
To the thought of expectation

Run rampant and wrestle
Painting a transitory picture of close relations

But pictures change over time
They can warp, shrink, crack, or crease

The profound perfection of fresh paint is such a sweet tease

Those innocent neck slaps
And holding of hands

The meaning of ulterior motives
A concept no one yet understands

The telling of secrets under covers
Without choking on words of honesty

Or the tangling of limbs in the morning
Not a sign of love or lust

Simply a playful commodity

This picture of closeness you made,
Where have you hidden it away?

Back in your hometown?
In your basement?

Perhaps somewhere no experience gets a say?

Because I bet if you brought it out again
Examined it a bit closer

You’d see beauty in vulnerability
And in your reflection, a poser

This youthful subject of yours
Living in peaceful oblivion

While you manipulate your heart
To only break even….

Because as you get older, you realize things like pain and passion cannot be separated with such ease

You realize closeness is not so attainable
When vulnerability has been seized

In the depth of the night,
when the crickets and cicadas
are holding my pain,
and they chirp as each tear wets the pillow,
I would like for you to hold it too.

To be fully seen is to be
a closed book with a lock,
for he who has the key.
He who cannot wait for the night
to come and let his pain be held
and also hold hers.

He prepares himself and reads
a page or two a day,
immersing himself more and more
in the story of her.

To be fully seen is to know well—
well,
he could grab a pen and scribble all over,
add a page or two,
write instead of you.
Yet give him the pain, and the pen and the markers,
excited to see what he'd do.

Because you have his book, too,
and all you want to do is highlight,
draw a rose or two,
plant a kiss or two,
where the scars are visible,
where the pages are torn.

When it feels like too much—
two people and two books—
to be fully seen
is what I am here for:
to open the book of my heart
and my life
with hands trembling,
with eyes caught,
with heart open.

Did you throw away the key?
Forget it...
I want to read your book, too.
For every page that ends with a question,
I'll make sure to add my answer to my book.

To be fully seen,
as a soul, naked,
floating in space,
with you,
you can let go,
with all my secrets,
with all my questions,
with my book.

You can tear it to pieces if
you so decide.
With my heart trembling,
and a bag of markers,
I'll return your book and the key
and be glad I was fully seen.
At least, I tried to be.

Sometimes, no matter how much you explain,
the person cannot read your book well,
nor remember the details
carefully underlined by you.

Maybe, just maybe, the closure is to see
it's not the quality of the book;
maybe the genre's just not his cup of tea.