Hands like Houses
Before I met you
I thought that the feeling
of some one else's fingers on my skin
was always going to burn.
I thought that the guilt and disgust
that filled every vein
would be permanent
and was something
I would have to deal with,
like asthma or chronic migranes.
I didn't know that lips
across my stomach
could inject a deep sense of love
and safety into my heart
and I definitely didn't understand
how hard one human being
could hold onto another at 3 am.
I definitely didn't realize that sometimes hands are homes
and that saviors
didn't always have to be found in churches
but instead
could be seventeen year old boys
with eyes like sunsets.
Most of all,
I didn't know that
there was more than one way
of saying that you love someone.
It could come subtly
as making sure you have at least
something in your stomach
but it could also be said
in hurricanes and hoarse throats
screaming "I love you god damn it
I love you don't die on me"
The whole "until death do us part" thing
was something said in movies,
not my saving grace
in the middle of a midnight breakdown.
I had no idea what freedom tasted like
until your full name
Rolled off my tongue
as easily
as if
I had been calling it out
my entire life.
I am thunderstorms wrapped in skin,
chaotic and damaging
and all together negative
but you?
You are crisp, autumn afternoons
with red cheeks and cold fingers.
You are my favorite kind of days
I can fill notebook after notebook
about the electricity between us,
how if you look close enough
you can see the tangible spark
And I'm not religious
but you are my god
This poem is about:
Me
Poetry Terms Demonstrated: