For your Valentine

Late Last night, I started to write about us
It took me, a thousand forgotten minutes
A lot of ink and enough loose leafed paper to recreate a young maple tree,
to come to the conclusion, that coming up with the perfect opening
ro this poem isn’t damn near impossible, it’s just not likely
So I said forget that, instead,
I’ll take my time and work on the body of this poem
Construct its bones into a place of worship, a temple,
Where I can sacrifice my words without fear of being crucified
This temple, shall sometimes be my bed,
at other times a stage somewhere in California
Either way, it shall be Strong and steady,
Unaffected by the willful passage of time
But flexible enough,
To let me carve out, what I want this poem to eventually be

I want this poem to make an attempt
To try, and show, to sketch, and narrate,
Outline, and portray, to depict
Make clear, make vivid, make out, and expound on what it is we are
We are this poem,
And I want it, to be honest in its telling
Let it speak on how we met,
Two quasi complete halves merging like the sun and the moon
You half empty, I half full
When we met in the middle,
I became as observable as the blistering blooming blush dancing festivals in my cheeks
A parade of devilish flames made to blaze when I gaze at you,
See how I gaze at you
See how the flames tinge my hue
Let them burn me to cremation if they must
Turn me crimson if they can, but I won’t take my eyes from you
For red is the color of valentine casted like a net,
Its iron grip, pulling the strings of my heart
Makes hanging look like fun
Red is the color of ripe love ready to fall from a back bent herculean flower
When it hits the ground, it heals wounds, balms scars, fixes scowls and much more
Red is the pedestal I stand on, brave and consciously making a fool of myself to keep you smiling
So red I’m rosy so rosy I’m rouge, so rouge even bleach couldn’t fade me
Wear red like a scarlet beacon,
A miniature lighthouse so I can always find my way to back to you
But also, let it be my brand so no other man thinks you single

So I hope, No, I do more than hope, I pray that I won’t ever be able
To call this poem complete; won’t be able to lay my pen in rest filled peaceful sleep so close to death it’s comatose,
I hope this poem transforms into a never ending piece of literature
Conceiving back stories, and miniseries, so raw its cut from t.v
So watered down kids think we’re cool
Tell me if it’s cool, if I nail and hammer the days I’ve shared with you on my tongue
So that when I speak, it would only be of moments I spent with you
My taste buds are tiny time capsules where I retain the memory of your kisses
In the carven of my mouth,
So if one day, I lose my phone and all the pictures it contains of you
If one day, time, robs me of my touch, and amnesia takes our love
I would still be able to lick my lips,
and bring back the first time we met,
and the last time you left
Ps.
Your should know, your love is a second chance for me to breathe again

2-8-11 5:07am