Another old poem. I wrote this in December of 2013 in a coffee shop when I should have been studying for finals.
I fell for you in fall,
but by the time winter came I felt you
like snow melting in my clenched fist.
Maybe I shouldn’t have held on so tight,
but I was caught up
in the discovery of my fingers.
They had all the boldness that my mouth did not.
They wrote you poems
and reached out into the empty space
to touch your ears
and make feeble attempts at your heart.
But my voice,
it got in the way.
It turned words into walls
that I imagined unbreakable.
My voice was full of worry and the weather.
Every time my fingers reached for you
my voice dropped an anvil of “no”s,
which crushed my hands
and left me aching.
But my fingers won’t be stopped
in spite of their breaking.
I pray for the miracle
that will turn every message
into a mountain top
like the one I nearly begged you to climb,
and you were beside me.
I was out of breath from hiking up your steep heart.
The words we said were nothing new.
We sang the same song we always do.
My dusty heart was impatient
so I left you,
thinking you would chase me.
I raced towards the next mountain top
thinking that would be the one
would inspire my voice
to be true to my heart.
But that mountain never came,
you did not chase me,
and my fingers are as tired as my mind
from trying to create love
out of pieces of paper.